


Knowing Where You're Going

by CupcakeGirlA



Series: With A Fearful Hope [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Banshees, Blood and Gore, Crossover, F/M, Feelings, Graphic Violence, Kitsunes, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sterek Pre-slash progressing steadily, Suspense, Unbeat'd, Violence, Walking Dead Crossover, Werewolves, Zombies, not everyone makes it out alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8 weeks have passed since The Pack left Beacon Hills during the outbreak and they have settled into a routine of sorts in their remote lakeside cabin. But the minor peace and sometimes tranquil life they have started to build there cannot last forever. Especially not when everything in Lydia is pushing her and them Eastward. *Minor Character Death*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles stares at the ceiling, listening to his father snore softly on the other side of the room.

1.

Stiles stares at the ceiling, listening to his father snore softly on the other side of the room. It’s still dark out, and Stiles hasn’t slept well. He hasn’t slept well in weeks. Not since their whole world had gone to complete and total shit.

The cabin was larger than Stiles had originally imagined it would be. Two floors high, with a slightly larger lower level. There were two bedrooms upstairs, but most of the pack choose to sleep downstairs scattered here and there across the living room floor. Stiles stretches on his pallet near the empty fireplace. The front door eases quietly open, and Stiles’ eyes fly to the face of the man entering. Scott is wet, drenched actually, rain water dripping out of the too long hair hanging in his eyes. Stiles relaxes again, and watches his best friend shake off excess water before wiping his feet and stepping inside. He nods to Isaac who is sitting at the dining room table crunching on a bowl of cereal.

“Anything?” Isaac asks. Scott frowns and nods.

“Four. East side of the lake,” Scott says reaching for a piece of fruit from the bowl on the counter. They were getting low again. Stiles mentally adds it to the shopping list. He takes a deep breath and pulls himself up out of his nest. He tugs up his sweat pants and heads for the kitchen, stepping over Derek’s sprawled out feet, and around the throw pillow that Prada, Lydia’s small black and white Papillion, had claimed as her own personal doggy bed. Prada picks her head up as he passes and blinks at him once before sighing and flopping her little head back down. Lydia is nowhere to be seen. Probably upstairs in bed with Allison or Kira. Melissa is curled up on the nearest couch, her back to the rest of the room. Stiles scratches at his lower back as he steps up to the dining table. He snatches a towel off a nearby pile and tosses it to Scott. Scott catches it out of the air, scrubbing it across his wet hair, and then wiping across his chest. He bites into the apple, crunching quietly on the sweet fruit. Stiles rubs at his face and sits on the stool next to Isaac’s. He reaches into Isaac’s bowl for a handful of stale cheerios. A spoon stabs at his fingers, and Stiles yanks his hand back with a wounded sound, cheerios scattering across the table. He glares.

“Asshole,” he hisses. Isaac sneers at him, face going just at touch wolfy. Scott shakes his head, and heads for the bathroom, reaching up to smack them both in the back of their heads on his way past.

“No fighting. The sun isn’t even up yet,” he warns, voice bored. “Isaac, finish your food. Your patrol starts in five minutes.” Isaac nods, scooping faster. ‘What kind of idiot eats dry cereal out of a bowl with a spoon anyway?’ Stiles thinks, irritated. The door closes behind Scott and Stiles slumps to rest his head on the table. He lets out a groan. A minute later he hears Derek let out a little grunt as he climbs to his feet. Stiles turns to look, and watches Derek stretch his arms up and back over his head, t-shirt riding up his tummy as he moves. Stiles looks quickly away, ignoring Isaac’s little snort of derision. Derek approaches them at the table, scratching at his stubbled chin. Isaac stands from his seat and moves around the table, nudging the mostly empty bowl in Stiles direction without a word. He tugs his shirt off as he goes. Leaving the red cotton hanging on a hook by the door, he disappears outside barefoot and half naked. Derek sits down beside Stiles, fingers snaking into the bowl Isaac had just abandoned. He fishes out a single cheerio, popping it into his mouth, and crunching down. His face of pure disgust is adorably predictable.

“They’re stale. They’re always stale. I don’t know why you always act so surprised,” Stiles says, tugging the bowl away and starting to munch. He ignores Derek’s grumpy face, and instead nudges the bowl of apples toward him.

“Are we still going out on our run today?” Derek asks. Stiles shrugs.

“Ask our fearless leader,” Stiles says, cracking open a bottle of water and taking a sip. Derek pauses like he’s listening and after a few seconds starts to smirk.

“Scott says fuck you, and to remember to bring back juice. Melissa’s afraid we are all going to come down with scurvy.” Derek hops off his stool and walks away; heading upstairs to get dressed. Stiles purposefully does not watch him go.

Kira appears just then on the upstairs landing, she smiles at Derek as they pass on the stairwell, entering the kitchen area, braiding her hair as she goes.

“Scott’s back?” she asks. Stiles motions to the bathroom door, and she bounces in place, reaching over to give him half a hug before heading in that direction. The door is easing open before she can raise a hand to knock.

Stiles’ father lets out a particularly loud snort in his sleep and rolls over, nearly falling off the couch. It’s just another morning post-apocalypse.

 

Town, as they affectionately (and somewhat sarcastically) call it, is a twenty minute drive away from the lake where their cabin sits. Far enough away for them to feel marginally safe, and close enough to take trips once, maybe twice a week. Stiles and Derek are slowly making their way through the place, building by building, gathering food, water, and any other supplies that can’t be made on the fly. Lydia’s a genius, and Derek’s pretty good with a wrench and duct tape, but some stuff just can’t be jerry rigged. They’ve been staying in the cabin for about two months now, hoping to last through the heat of the summer before starting East. They “have to go East,” Lydia says often and a touch desperately. They’d all agreed last pack meeting that they would stay a few more weeks and head out in Mid-September. John and Melissa had sat down and come up with an emergency evac plan in case things ever happen to go south. Each car had at least two weeks supply of food for the whole group stashed in the back. Stiles and Derek make a good team, sweeping through buildings and always seeming to make it out of bad situations just by the skin of their teeth. For now the pack is biding their time and trying to gather their strength and resolve to leave California.

Stiles watches out the window as Derek pulls to a stop behind the Mom & Pop diner at the far end of Town. They’d cleaned it out a week ago, but it is shady there, surrounded by trees like it is. He pulls around the far end of the lot, parking behind the dumpster, a large tree hiding the car from sight. The last thing they want is to have someone spot their car. Stiles fingers the spare set of keys in his pocket, then checks his gun strapped to his thigh, and the knife hidden on the back of his belt.

“What’s up for this run?” Derek asks. Stiles nods up the street.

“I want to hit that gift shop, and maybe that bar. Stop by the yard again on the way back.”

“The bar?” Derek asks.

“Most bars sell more than just alcohol, Big Guy. You’d know that if you got out more.”

 

Isaac returns from his run, mostly dry, and a little bit sweaty. The rain had dried up in the heat of midday, leaving it muggy and humid. He steps inside, nodding to Kira, as she heads out for her patrol. Kira is the only non-wolf Scott will let go out alone. Allison had objected to this arrangement, but Scott had been adamant. Kira could heal from a lot worse than the humans or a banshee could. And her ability to summon lightning had proved amazingly effective against the… things that kept attacking.

Isaac heads to the kitchen sink, filling a glass with well water and bending over to pour it all out onto his head. When he stands up Melissa is perched beside him on the counter, towel in hand.

“Good patrol?” she asks. He nods, taking the towel gratefully to wipe himself down.

“Yeah, it was okay. Scott was right, not much action. There are a few on the far side of the lake, but they seem to be pretty happy hunting the wildlife, instead of heading our way. We should keep an eye on them though. We don’t want to be taken by surprise.” Melissa nods, retrieving a granola bar for him and pressing it into his hand.

“Eat something and get a little rest. Scott and Lydia are working on inventory and,” she looks quickly toward the living room, Isaac follows her gaze. Lydia and Scott are sitting close on the couch, bent over a spiral notebook and talking quietly. Scott looks exhausted, hollow eyed. Isaac frowns. He wants to do more, help in any way he can. Scott is taking on too much responsibility and he won’t listen to reason. Melissa looks back to Isaac and leans closer, “and later… scheduling,” she says almost inaudibly. Isaac feels his shoulders relax just a little. He tears a hole in the granola bar wrapper and takes a big bite. He winces at the taste of cranberries in his mouth. Melissa laughs, back at full volume. “Sorry kid, we are all out of the oatmeal raisin.” She pats him on the shoulder, and hops down. “Later this afternoon I’m taking a few loads of laundry outside to wash. Keep me company?” she asks as she walks away. He nods when she glances over her shoulder.

“Just let me know when,” Isaac says. She grins at him, before finally reaching the couch where she joins the Sheriff looking out the window. Isaac crams the rest of the granola bar into his mouth.

“Isaac,” he hears called softly. He looks up to the landing, and sees Allison there. She smiles down at him, leaning on the railing. Her dimples are showing, her hair pulled up in a messy pony tail. And he feels his mouth stretch up in an answering smile.

“Hey,” he replies, swallowing the dry granola in his mouth, and waving.

“Coming up?” she asks, biting her lip. He looks to Scott, torn, wanting to know if there’s anything he needs done. But Scott is looking straight at him, amusement lighting up his face. He makes a shooing motion.

“We’ll catch up after your nap,” the way he pops the P, has Lydia giggling into Scott’s shoulder, and Isaac fighting a smirk. He shakes his head, and starts up the stairs, using the towel to finish drying off as he reaches the landing. Allison grins at him, big and bright, and grabs his hand, tugging him into the far bedroom. It’s the one with the extra big bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be character death. I will warn at the end of each chapter who it will be and let you know to check that at the beginning of the chapters where it happens so you have the option of peeking in advance. I don't ever want to trigger anyone. This story is listed as Sterek, because one of the very basic story lines is Stiles' and Derek' developing feelings for each other leading to them eventually acting on them. This story is part of a larger arc where it will crossover with The Walking Dead. This is NOT the last story in the series.


	2. The gift shop is tiny, tucked in between a Dentists’ office...

2.

The gift shop is tiny, tucked in between a Dentists’ office, which had been charred to a black husk by a fire before they even arrived in Town for the first time, and a mostly empty office space, where a faded FOR LEASE sign still hung crookedly in the window. 

Derek breaks the padlock on the back door, and heads inside first while Stiles watches his exit. He whistles when it’s clear, and Stiles slides inside, closing the door behind him. He loops a bit of rope around the door handle and ties it to a file cabinet nearby. Instant lock.

Stiles reaches the front of the store and finds Derek frowning at the front windows, arms crossed over his chest. The smallest pane on the far left has been broken out. 

“Someone has been here,” it isn’t a question but Derek nods anyway. “How long ago?” Stiles asks. He looks around, the place has been pretty well looted. The snack section has been emptied of everything but BBQ pork rinds, and reduced fat Lays potato chips. 

“Couple of days. Take anything we might need now. We shouldn’t come back here again.” Derek turns away from the window. He grabs up a canvas bag from next to the cash register. He takes what is left of the snack section, and frowning, ducks down behind the register. He feels along the underside of the counter until his hand finds the gun that’s taped there. He yanks it free and holds it up in triumph. 

“Now, how did you know that was there?” Stiles asks, already turning away. He ignores the look Derek gives his back, even though he can feel it burning into the back of his head. It’s glare number 4, the one that says: “Don’t be an idiot! Why do you always have to ask?” Stiles circles around to the far side of the store, past broken knickknacks and upended fake flowers arrangements. He finds a display of travel games. Grabs up travel Yahtzee! And a couple packs of cards. There’s a rack of crossword puzzle books nearby, and he plucks one out for Melissa. She loves the things. 

In the center of the store, he snags a lavender tank top. It’s Kira’s favorite color, and she’d ripped the one she’d brought with them the week before while sparring on the front lawn with Derek. He stuffs it into the bag and then makes his way toward the display of candy in the corner. It’s pretty picked over too, but he finds a bag of Werther’s caramels his dad loves wedged between the side of the display and the wall. There’s one lone pack of Reeses’ peanut butter cups too, for Derek, that he finds half squished under a knocked over vase. He ignores the way Derek is watching him until he’s done picking over the display. No gum for Scott. Maybe next time.

“Why do you do that?” Derek asks. Stiles turns to look at him, frowning. 

“Do what?” he asks. 

“You always bring back stuff for everyone else. You never bring back anything back for yourself. Why?” Derek asks. He’s hops up on to the checkout desk, long legs swinging as he studies Stiles. 

“I’m fine. I don’t need anything,” Stiles replies. He turns away, ignoring Derek as he hops down off the counter and stalks with purpose to the right back corner of the store, where a small selection of toiletries spans one section of wall. Stiles instead turns to the book display, magically untouched by whoever had come before. He finds a crime novel for Scott, and an autobiography for Lydia. He startles when a hand reaches around him, and a stick of right guard is set down on the top shelf. He relaxes when he recognizes the hand, but twists his face into a glare before turning around. 

“You might think you don’t need anything. But some of us disagree. A gift from me to you,” Derek offers with a smirk. Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek and snatches it off the shelf. He fights the urge to sneer as he pushes past Derek bumping him out of the way with one bony shoulder. He ignores the way his face has heated in mortification.

“Deodorant was not exactly a top priority when we were packing up to flee home,” he says over his shoulder. Derek very nearly, practically, ok definitely rolls his eyes. 

“Oh please. You remembered to bring it. You even remembered to use it. But you ran out like 6 days ago. Do us all a favor and don’t let it happen again.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, doing one more check of the store shelves, before making his way back toward the door they’d come in through. Derek follows a few steps behind. He waits for Stiles to untie the door rope, before taking point and moving outside first. It’s only when they step out into the bright midday sun that Stiles looks down at the deodorant in his hand. It’s the exact same brand and scent he’s used for the last year. He finds himself almost asking the question, but manages to stop himself just in time. 

“Someone needs to keep their wolfy little nose out of other peoples’ personal business. This is getting really out of hand,” he mutters to himself. Derek makes a scoffing sound, even as he starts to head around the building toward the bar. 

“You’d be surprised what all of us with wolfy little noses have to ignore on a day to day basis. Like I need to know when Melissa is menstruating, or whether or not Scott and Kira are using condoms.” Stiles feels his mouth drop open. 

“They don’t always!?” he asks shocked. Derek shoots him a look. “I specifically brought him a box back last time we were in Town. They couldn’t have used them ALL already!” he says. Derek shrugs. 

“It’s funny you think they’re the only ones using them,” Derek says. He rounds the corner of the building, heading further up the line of buildings that separate their back alley from Main Street. He slows his pace. 

“Well Isaac and Ally are of course. But not anyone else,” Stiles says. He waits for Derek to acknowledge him, and Derek’s lack of reply has him halting in place. “What?” he demands. Derek turns around slowly, face blank. “Who else?” he demands. Derek doesn’t answer, just looks away, lips turning down in a frown. “You and Lydia?” Stiles asks, and his voice goes hoarse and a little broken as he asks it. He takes a step back. Derek looks up shocked and shakes his head. 

“Oh god, no! Stiles, that is not happening. Ever,” he says the last word slowly, enunciating carefully and Stiles feels his shoulders relax, that is until he realizes that leaves only two other people in their ragtag group of 9. 

“Not... No!” he says softly, half horrified and half skeptically amazed. Derek shrugs again. 

“At least you and Scott can maybe start claiming each other as brothers in more than bond?” Stiles very badly wants to throw something at him, but the only thing nearby is a half a broken beer bottle or a brick and he’s not that vindictive. Derek pauses listening and sniffing the air, clearly done talking about it. Stiles has a million questions like: How serious is it? How long has it been going on? Is it just a comfort thing or more? Stiles tables it for now.

“Anything?” Stiles asks, waiting to move until Derek has done a check. Derek shakes his head and starts toward the back of the auto body store. They’d found couple of spare car batteries and a pretty useful supply of beef jerky there on their last pass. 

They continue up the narrow alley sandwiched between the old antiques store and the auto shop. Derek pauses before crossing the street to the bar they’re aiming for, looking both ways and breathing deeply. He freezes in place, tension tightening his shoulders. Stiles moves closer, studying the side of Derek’s face as his jaw clenches so tight Stiles fears he’ll hear the crack of teeth, before the tension releases. 

“The windows are broken out at the bar too,” Derek says, brow furrowing. Stiles nods. 

“We’ll make sure it’s empty before we go in,” he says, tugging his half full backpack further up his shoulder. Derek shakes his head.

“There’s someone in there,” he says nodding to the smashed in window of the bar. Stiles squints in that direction. 

“Living or not-dead?”he asks. He double checks his gun, flicking off the safety. 

“Living. But injured, and…” Derek frowns impossibly harder. “Sick.” He gives Stiles a significant look. “I take the lead.” It’s not a question. Stiles nods, making a face, and rolling his eyes in reply. He’s done his best the last few weeks to let Derek take the lead in situations like this, when they’re out on runs. He’s faster, stronger, and can take hits that Stiles merely can’t. This isn’t the first time they’d run into another person. Stiles doesn’t like to think about the other times. They have never ended well. The image of Derek getting shot in the shoulder and falling backward onto hard asphalt had haunted his dreams for days after the last time. He doesn’t regret shooting the asshole in the knee cap. He really doesn’t.

They go back the way they’d come, moving further up the row of buildings before crossing the main road, and then easing up to the bar from the protected sight line of its closest neighbor. Derek pulls out his own gun, the one he’s never had to fire at a living person, preferring tooth and claw when dealing with human enemies. 

“How many?” Stiles asks. 

“Just the one,” Derek’s brow furrows. “Whoever it is, they’re… familiar,” Derek says. Stiles stills beside him. Derek appears to be thinking it over.

“Who?” he asks. Derek turns to look at him, eyes searching Stiles’ face. 

“Argent.”


	3. “Anything else?” Scott asks, arching his back and stretching his arms up over his head.

3\. 

“Anything else?” Scott asks, arching his back and stretching his arms up over his head. Prada jumps up on to the couch cushion beside him and then climbs over into his lap. He reaches down to pet her tiny head. Prada rolls over showing him her belly and going pliant under his hands. He smiles at her indulgently, and his fingers automatically start checking her over. His two years as a veterinary assistant in training never forgotten. 

“No, that’s it for the moment,” Lydia frowns. Scott checks Prada’s back legs, stopping to rub her across the tummy before letting her snuggle into the space between him and Lydia. 

“You can say it. You know I’d never get mad at you for saying what’s on your mind,” Scott says quietly. Lydia stills taking a deep breath beside him before relaxing. She slumps over, threading her arm through his, and resting her head on his shoulder. Prada wiggles free from between them and jumps down. Scott waits. 

“You’re working too hard. You need to take more time for yourself. Doing two shifts on patrol this often is too much. I know you think it’s necessary but you’re going to burn out if you don’t get more rest,” she says softly, voice still a touch scratchy. Scott shifts but doesn’t pull away from her. 

“We can’t make the patrols any longer than they already are. And with Stiles and Derek heading into Town every few days, I can’t ask them to come back and take their usual turns. That’s hardly fair with everything they face while they’re gone. Someone has to cover for them.” Lydia nods in understanding. 

“You’re not the only one who can cover those shifts. Allison, Isaac, Kira, John. They’re all worried about you. They’re all willing to take the extra shifts. You just have to let them,” she tightens her grip on his elbow, hugging it to her side. Scott turns to look at her. 

“We can come up with a rotating schedule maybe?” he offers. She grins at him hugely, eyes lighting up. 

“Yes, one where every few days people pull a double, and then get a little extra time off the next day. Excellent plan,” she agrees. “I’ll start working on it now.” She releases his arm and reaches for the notebook, already filling in times and names, at a speed that makes Scott think this entire thing has gone exactly like she expected it to, how she’d planned it to. He shakes his head in tired amusement. 

 

Allison hops down the steps, practically bouncing as she adjusts the strap on her quiver. Scott looks toward the landing and finds Isaac’s heartbeat, slow and even with sleep, behind the bedroom door. He shares a look with Lydia, who smirks, mouth pursing with amusement. 

“Kira should be back in about ten minutes,” Lydia says, standing from the couch, and stretching. She scoops up Prada, taking her into the kitchen as Allison finally reaches the ground floor. 

“You ready Mr. S?” Allison asks. She checks the tension on her bow and smiles at him. John nods from his seat, he’s leaning over and tightening the laces of his boots. Allison turns to Scott. “Isaac said four East side?” Scott nods standing up and walking to the dining room table. They have a map of the area laid out there, their cabin marked with a blue square. He points to the area where the dead seemed to be congregating. 

“They seem to like it here. We’re not sure why. Kira was going to scope out this side over here a little more fully.” He points to the North, where they usually did their game hunting. “She thinks there might be a freshwater spring coming down out of the mountains. We might need another source of drinkable water in case the well runs dry. Mom says the lake water is not safe, and Lydia wants to try and save the water purification tabs until we absolutely need them.” Allison nods, studying the map more carefully. 

“We can head up this way,” she motions to a section of the map. “Maybe we can snag a deer while we’re out. We haven’t had venison in a while. Do you want me to take THEM out if I can?” Scott frowns considering.

“Only if you can do it safely and from a distance.” She nods in agreement and glances up over Scott’s shoulder and catches sight of John leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Melissa’s upturned mouth. She looks away quickly, biting back a smile. 

“If you’re gonna kiss my mom goodbye, you can at least make it a good one,” Scott says, not bothering to even glance over his shoulder. Allison watches Melissa freeze, her face going oddly pink and white at the same time. Allison fights not to giggle. Scott turns around, leaning his butt against the edge of the table and going for casual nonchalance. John squares his shoulders, standing a touch taller, and frowning. Melissa stands up from the couch, reaching for his hand and looking like she’s gearing up for a fight. 

“Scott,” she starts. Scott grins as he interrupts her. 

“Come on, Mom. I’m a werewolf. Enhanced senses. You guys might want to tell Stiles soon though. He doesn’t have my supernatural advantage.” He steps toward them, and pulls his mom into a hug. 

“You’re not upset. I mean, with your Dad and…” She says softly, voice trailing off. Scott shakes his head. 

“Dad left a long time ago, and yeah, things are better with him after he came back, but… he left again. You deserve to be with someone you can depend on, who will treat you right, and love you and respect you. John,” he shrugs. “He’s one of the greatest guys I’ve ever met, and he and Stiles were already family.” She beams up at him. 

“Good, because you don’t get a say in who I date. You’ve never gotten a say.” She pulls out of the hug, going for motherly and firm and mostly failing. Scott just shakes his head, and rolls his eyes, tempted to bring up Peter Hale, but deciding not to. He looks toward John, holding out a hand. John takes it, shaking it once before pulling him into a hug. 

“You don’t need my permission, I know that, but I’m happy for her and for you. We all deserve something good after all we’ve been through,” Scott says. John nods. 

“I appreciate the blessing. I just hope Stiles takes it so well,” John replies. Scott laughs. 

“I hate to break it to you, but we sort of had it all planned out to end up this way since like back in 8th grade,” Scott says watching delight and shock battle for prominence on both their faces. He and Stiles had been 13 years old and had decided that they really should be brothers, and since Mrs. McCall’s divorce had been final for a few years, and some of the immediate pain of losing Stiles’ mother had slowly started to dissipate in the 3 years since it had happened, well what better way to make themselves brothers then by setting up their parents? They could never quite figure out how to make it happen though.

The smile drops of Scott’s face when he hears the sound of swiftly running feet. He has the door open before Kira gets there, eyes searching her for injuries or any sign of a fight. Her face is a little sweaty, her hair a little wild, but she’s uninjured, no blood or gunk or even mud on her clothing. She smells like the forest, like tree sap and leaves, and the ever present tinge of ozone.

“What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” She takes a deep breath. 

“Derek and Stiles are coming back, and they’re coming back fast!” she says. She turns to look up the road, where the Toyota could just be seen coming toward the cabin. 

“It’s too early. Something must be wrong,” Scott says. He focuses, letting his eyes turn red and his hearing enhance. “They have someone with them!” he says. By then, Allison, John, and Melissa have followed him outside, all watching the approaching car. “Ally, get Isaac,” Scott says, he doesn’t ever turn his attention away from the approaching car for even a second. 

“Allison?” the sound of Lydia’s voice calling from the door way, the heartbroken tone of it, is enough to finally snare Scott’s attention, and stop Allison’s forward momentum in its tracks. Lydia’s standing there, eyes teary, face pale, and forehead furrowed. Allison focuses her attention on Lydia, horror slowly coming over her expression. 

“No! No. No. No…” she says desperately, tears springing to her eyes too. The car skids to a stop in the dirt in front of the cabin, Stiles flinging himself out of the driver’s seat. 

“We need help! He’s been bitten!”


	4. Stiles helps Derek get Argent out of the car...

4.

Stiles helps Derek get Argent out of the car, but once they’re upright Scott takes over for him, sliding under Chris’s arm to shoulder his weight. He and Derek carry him into the house and hold him up while Lydia and Stiles’ dad scramble to make a pallet on the living room floor. Once they have him laid down Melissa calls for her bag, and Allison falls to her knees at his other side, trying not to cry all over him, her hands shaking. Lydia sinks on to the couch nearby, face pale, and eyes swimming with tears. Stiles doesn’t miss how she has her mouth clamped shut so hard her teeth must ache from the pressure. Stiles touches her shoulder briefly, gets a nod of absent acknowledgement, and then goes outside again, bracing his hands on his knees and trying to breathe. Kira’s there a second later, a hand on his back, asking him if he’s ok. Stiles shakes his head. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t have brought him back,” he whispers. Her face crumples in confusion. 

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

“He’s been bitten!” Stiles hisses angrily, shaking his head. When he speaks again his voice is softer, pained. “He’s going to die, Kira. And then he’s going to turn. Maybe we should have just taken care of it in town. Let him die, and then come back here and told Allison we were too late. Maybe that would have been kinder,” he whispers. She shakes her head. 

“Allison is stronger than that. We can’t start lying to each other, Stiles. Not about important stuff like this. It’s her dad. This way she knows for sure. And maybe she can say goodbye,” Kira reasons. Her voice goes soft and sad, like it always does when she thinks about her own parents whose fate still remains a mystery. Stiles slumps to sit on the back bumper of the Toyota. He nods, looking away from her. 

“You’re right. I just… I don’t want to make it any worse for her than it already is going to be, you know?” Kira nods, and turns back to the house. 

“Allison and your dad were supposed to take this shift. I’ve got it though.”

“Stay close?” he asks. She grins in agreement. 

“I’ll be in my tree,” she points North to where her favorite tree stood taller than all the others in the area. 

 

Scott watches with arms crossed as his mother checks Mr. Argent’s temperature, his blood pressure, and does a quick work up. When she finds the bite, a nasty one on the back of one calf, she winces, and presses clean dressings to it gently. She looks over her shoulder at Scott and shakes her head. Isaac stumbles into the room just then, bleary-eyed and confused. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. Scott looks toward the pallet.

“Stiles and Derek found Mr. Argent in Town,” he watches surprise and happiness filter across Isaac’s face. Scott grips his shoulder, dropping his voice. “Isaac, he’s been bitten.” Isaac deflates at the words, realization spreading quickly across his features and his attention swinging completely in Allison’s direction. Scott squeezes his shoulder and then lets him go. He watches Isaac making his way carefully and slowly around the room, to sit down beside Allison. She’s crying quietly, eyes set on her father’s sweaty face, one hand gripping her father’s tightly. When Isaac’s hand presses lightly into her back, she melts backward letting him support her weight. Scott turns away, making eye contact with John. John meets him by the door, where Derek is watching the goings on with a critical eye. Scott motions to the gun on John’s hip. “You have to watch him,” he says seriously. John frowns but nods. Scott shares a look with Derek and steps outside, Derek following wordlessly behind. Stiles is sitting on the back bumper of the Toyota, posture defeated and exhausted. 

“What the hell happened?” Scott asks. He goes to Stiles, checking him over a tad roughly. Stiles slaps his hands away. 

“We found him that way. He was in the old bar off Main St. He was in the back office, barricaded in. Derek recognized his scent so we went inside. He was barely conscious, feverish, obviously bitten. But we had to bring him back. Dude, we just had to!” Stiles explains. Scott closes his eyes and looks away, but he squeezes Stiles shoulder once before letting him go completely.

“You had to,” Scott agrees. “It was stupid, but you totally had to.”

“I sat in the back with him, gun in hand, safety off, just in case,” Derek says. 

“I have your dad watching him for now,” Scott tells Stiles. “I guess now we just wait. Anything else happen in Town?” Stiles and Derek share a look. “Guys?”

“Someone else has been there since our last trip. They took what was left of the major food supplies, and raided the bar. When we found Argent there, I thought maybe he’d been the one to do it, but the bar was empty. No supplies of food or water. Whoever it is… maybe they didn’t stick around,” Derek offers. 

“Hopefully,” Scott replies, but he doesn’t sound too sure about it. 

 

Stiles can’t face going back inside with Scott and Derek so instead he pulls the bags of stuff they’d managed to collect out of the trunk and sorts through it. He puts all the food and water in one bag then puts the special items in another. He’ll pass them out later. He stores them both in the shade of the porch, next to the front door. Then he sits for a few more minutes on the bench there, mind spinning from one topic to another, one bad scenario to the next, one horrible memory to another equally horrendous one, before giving up. He needs to be doing something, anything. He heads around the cabin to the back yard which borders the trees of the forest. He opens the door to the small tool shed there, and finds a shovel. 

He picks a shady spot under a large tree, and starts to dig. His father finds him there about ten minutes later. 

“Stiles?” John says, wiping sweat off his brow and walking up to where Stiles has managed to dig a small but growing hole. “You ok?” Stiles shakes his head. He’s breathing heavily, sticky with sweat, and angry. His shovel digs into the ground over and over with so much anger behind it that John almost feels sorry for the sod. He watches Stiles for about a minute, before stepping closer. “What are you doing?” he asks. Stiles slams the shovel into the ground and lets it go. The shovel stays there, handle sticking straight up. He uses his t-shirt to wipe dirt and sweat off his face. 

“Digging a hole. We should bury our dead,” he says. He doesn’t look his father in the face, just starts to shovel again. John studies him a moment and nods, then goes to the shed to find another shovel. He comes back and starts digging a few feet away. 

“I think maybe you should take a break from going to Town, stick a little closer to home for a bit.” Stiles doesn’t pause this time, just keeps digging up clumps of dirt and tossing them onto the nearby pile. 

“Why?” he asks. John sighs. 

“I think you and Scott… you’re both taking on too much. And I think you need some time to rest, regroup.” 

“That’s not a luxury we really have right now. We need the supplies. We need to know if anyone is coming at us from that direction. It’ll be different when we leave here, when we’re all out on the road together. But for now I need to be making the runs. Derek always has my back.” He turns to look at his father. “Dad, I need to do this,” he says, “don’t ask me not to.” John’s reply is silenced by Stiles’ shifting attention. He looks over John’s shoulder to see Derek approaching. 

“John, Melissa wants you,” he says. John nods climbing out of the hole and shaking off lose dirt. 

“Thanks, Derek. Stiles… just think about what I said,” he asks. Stiles nods, but doesn’t look his way again, seemingly focused on his digging. Derek takes the shovel from John on his way past, pausing to share a significant look with him, before making his way to Stiles and jumping down beside him to help finish digging the grave.


	5. The hole is big, 5 feet deep, 3 feet wide, and 6 feet long when Derek decides that enough is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Minor On Screen Character Death, I have named them in the bottom note for this chapter.

5\. 

The hole is big, 5 feet deep, 3 feet wide, and 6 feet long when Derek decides that enough is enough. They’re filthy dirty, covered in sweat, and exhausted. The dirt is mixing with the sweat dripping off them and Stiles is consequently covered in mud as a result. His hair slicked wet with it, and he’s breathing so hard Derek is actually worried about him. But Stiles still isn’t slowing down. Derek turns to watch him, sets his own shovel down against the dirt wall and steps closer to him in the small space. Stiles pauses for a moment leaning on his shovel, before seeming to deflate in on himself, as he fights to catch his breath. When he starts to keel over Derek darts forward and catches him under the arms, hands sliding around his chest, pulling him backward into Derek’s body. Stiles struggles for a minute in Derek’s grip, but only briefly. Then he sags against him. The shift in weight has Derek losing his balance. He falls backward and slides down the dirt wall to land on his ass, Stiles sprawled out across his legs and lap. Derek has a moment of panic at the feel of Stiles too hot skin where it touches his, at the way his body shakes, but he shoves it away. Stiles hides his face with dirty hands, and then turns into Derek’s chest, hands clutching at Derek’s t-shirt. 

“I didn’t want to lose anyone else. Not one more person. And he counts. Allison’s Dad counts!” Stiles hisses angrily, face pressed to Derek’s shoulder. Derek nods, and lets his arms fold around Stiles’ back. 

“We’re going to lose people, Stiles. That’s how life works,” Derek says. He swallows thickly, not sure what to say to comfort him. 

“I can’t lose my Dad, Derek. Not like this. Not to a goddamn bite!” his voice has a note of pleading to it. 

“I know. You won’t. I promise you won’t!” Derek says. Stiles tightens his grip on his shirt, shaking hands pulling cotton tighter across Derek’s chest and then suddenly going slack, as Stiles starts to cry. “We’ll make sure. I promise you,” Derek whispers. Stiles cries quietly, shaking against Derek’s chest. Derek’s not sure how long they lay there before Stiles quiets completely, and his shaking stops. Eventually Derek loosens his grip but he doesn’t push Stiles away. 

“You’re a good guy Derek. You wouldn’t know it from the lumberjack beard and the broody eyebrows,” Stiles whispers, pulling back to look at Derek’s face. His eyes are rimmed red, his face flushed. “But you are. Even if you do make promises you know you can’t keep.” 

Before Derek can formulate a response the sound of a banshee’s scream has his hands flying up to cover his ears. He rolls to his side, curling in on himself, and wincing in pain. Stiles pushes himself up, scrambling up the muddy wall of the grave. 

 

Chris Argent is feverish and unconscious. He’d briefly opened his eyes and recognized Allison, reaching for her face, before passing out again. The fever was ravaging his system as the infection spread.

“It’s aggressive, tearing through his system too fast. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Melissa whispers pressing a wet cloth to the back of Chris’ neck, and eyeing Allison worriedly. There’s nothing really to do but wait. 

The room grows quiet, Allison whispering to her father the only sound to be heard, and all of them watching each other with fearful and sad expressions. Lydia curls up facing away from them, eyes clenched closed, and her knees drawn up tight. Her hands fisted into painful balls. Prada noses at her side and when she doesn’t react, presses herself to Lydia’s hip to try and offer comfort. 

Lydia’s scream surprises no one in the house, though most do jump when it finally bursts out of her. Scott and Isaac both cringe, but Isaac keeps his arms locked around Allison’s waist. She’s crying silently, hands wiping grime and sweat from her father’s forehead. At Lydia’s scream her hands fall away and her crying sniffles to a halt. She takes a gulping breath, and wipes at her own face with shaking hands. The force of the scream knocks Lydia off the couch onto the floor, landing hard on her knees. Scott catches her, cradling her as the scream finally dies away. 

Melissa looks down, letting go of Chris’s wrist where she’d been monitoring his pulse. She turns with furrowed brow and watery eyes to Scott. “Scott,” she says softly. He maneuvers Lydia to lean against the front of the couch, touching her hair gently in comfort, before moving closer to his mother, his hands reaching to help her up off the floor and away from the body. 

“I know. I know Mom,” he says. He nods toward Lydia, who rocks back and forth on the floor where she sits near Chris’s feet, shaking and crying. Melissa nods, moving to get Lydia up and out of the room. 

“Daddy,” Allison says, and it sounds like a plea and a demand all at once. 

“Allison,” John says, stepping closer. He has his gun out, hanging down at his side, pointed at the floor. She shakes her head, pulling Isaac’s arms from around her waist and stumbling to her feet. Isaac reaches for her again, but she moves away from him. 

“Ally?” he calls, standing too. Melissa eases open the front door and walks a pliant but mumbling Lydia outside, the door smacking closed behind her. Allison pauses watching them go, and then walks to the dining room table, where she picks up her discarded crossbow. Without saying a word, she turns around, aims, and fires. The bolt slices through the air fast and nearly silent to bury itself in her father’s forehead. 

Scott steps between her and the body, lowering her still raised hand and prying the crossbow from her trembling fingers. 

“Allison, you didn’t have to do that,” he says gently. She looks up at him with red rimmed eyes and blinks slowly. 

“I couldn’t let him become one of those things,” she says hoarsely, face crumpling with fresh pain. Scott reaches out for her, pulling her into a hug, and wrapping arms around her. She clings to him, pressing her face into his neck. 

“But, it didn’t have to be you,” he explains. She shakes her head again. 

“It had to be me. It had to be me,” she repeats. “I needed to be the one to do it. Me. Not anyone else,” she mumbles. “It’s what hunters do, Scott. If you get bitten, you do what you have to do, so you don’t become a monster. And if you aren’t strong enough, your family helps you.” Scott squeezes his arms around her shoulders a little bit tighter in understanding. It was part of the old code, one that the last few months had apparently been revised in Allison’s mind to feature a different type of bite altogether. He looks toward Isaac, who’s standing there awkwardly, not sure what to do or how to do it. 

“You should go outside, get some air,” Scott says, eyes locking with Isaac’s over her shoulder. Allison shakes against him with more intensity, shock his mind supplies, but she nods in acceptance. She pulls away, wiping at her cheeks. Then she seems to straighten, head swinging toward the door. 

“Oh God, Lydia. I should check on her,” Allison says, moving quickly toward the door. 

“Ally,” Isaac says stepping toward her. She stops, flinging herself against him, arms locking around his neck. 

“Isaac,” she whispers. He nods, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, smoothing the hair on the back of her neck. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. She nods, clinging to him a little bit tighter, pressing her face into his shoulder, and pressing all down his front. “You don’t have to be strong. Not right now,” he whispers. Those words seem to do the trick, and Allison’s legs go loose as she lets herself collapse against him. He holds her up, and then bends, and scoops her up into his arms. Scott opens the door for them, and watches Isaac take her outside. Scott closes the door behind them and braces himself there, trying to breathe. 

When he’s composed himself and is able to turn around he finds John kneeling beside Chris Argent’s body, folding the blanket up over his side, the arrow removed from his head. Scott moves to help, folding the blanket up from the other side. 

“We should bury him, I guess?” Scott says. John nods. 

“Stiles and Derek are digging him a grave out back.” There’s really nothing much to say in response to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris Argent


	6. The funeral is somber, and short.

6.

The funeral is somber, and short. Chris had not been a religious man. But they’d honored the things that had meant the most to him, the things that pointed to the type of man he was. They had sent him off with a handful of wild flowers Kira had found in the woods, and a small plaque made from a slice of stone from a neighbors long abandoned garden path. Allison had recited the code in French, explaining how they’d changed it after everything had happened the year before. She’d cried a little as she talked about how proud he had made her but she hadn’t broken down fully. She was strong. She always had been. Lydia had stood beside her, hand clenched around Allison’s throughout the whole ordeal. No one said anything when the two disappeared upstairs afterward, and no one had followed them upstairs either. Kira had showered quickly, and then made her way upstairs timidly. Scott had watched from the far couch as she knocked lightly on the door. When Lydia had opened it, she’d smiled softly and then immediately opened the door fully, tugging Kira in by one wrist and closing the door quickly behind her. 

Stiles is curled up, exhausted on the other end of the couch, his eyes are drooping, but he’s fighting sleep. He had rinsed off in the bathroom and changed his clothes after finishing the grave and had said barely a word since. It was starting to freak Scott out a little. He still smells like sweat and Earth and anger. 

“You ok?” Scott asks. Stiles nods, stretching a little and rolling over to face the ceiling, his feet landing in Scott’s lap with the movement. Normally Scott would have kicked them off and made a comment about foot odor and personal hygiene, instead he wraps a hand around Stiles’ ankle and pulls them a few inches higher into his lap. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. 

“The world is a truly fucked up place,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But, what else is new?” 

“What do you think about Town? Is it safe to go back there?” Scott asks. 

“I don’t know, Scotty. It’s pretty picked over. I’m not sure there’s much worth going back for. It feels… unsafe knowing that other people have been there again. Before it was people passing through, not scavengers. Derek couldn’t find any trace that they’d stayed behind, but I don’t know if we can risk going back.” Scott nods. 

“We should think about moving up our plans to leave. It might be a good idea to get out of here sooner rather than later,” Scott puts his head back exhausted. Stiles agrees, he knows Lydia will be happy at the news.

 

Allison curls up tighter, shifting on the bed, and sniffing quietly. Her head rests in Lydia’s lap and every once in a while Lydia pushes back her hair, combing through it with long fingers. She hums quietly, letting Allison cry. No one points out the tears falling down her face too, one or two every 30 seconds or so. She doesn’t seem to notice them. Kira sits in the window seat, knees pulled up, and arms wrapped around them. She watches the two girls on the bed, unsure, even after all this time, if she really truly belongs. Allison sighs, rolling over to stare up at the ceiling. She catches Lydia’s hand where it hovers over her face and holds it tightly in hers, bringing it down to rest on her sternum. Lydia grips her hand back. 

“Is he still out there?” Allison asks. Her voice sounds broken. Tired. Flat. Kira cranes her neck, looking out the window. If she contorts herself just right she can just barely see the figures down at the lakes edge. Melissa and Isaac are there, John sitting nearby, gun in hand. Melissa has Isaac knee deep in the water, scrubbing at the stains on a pair of jeans. Isaac’s facing the cabin, and Kira sees his hands moving slowly across the denim absently, mind obviously focused somewhere else entirely. She nods. 

“Yep,” Kira says. Allison shakes her head, smiling weakly up at the ceiling. 

“Do your chores Isaac. I’m fine. I’ve got my girls with me,” she says in a normal tone. She turns her head and looks at Kira, raising an eyebrow. Kira stretches to peek again. Isaac has turned away, and he’s bent over scrubbing vigorously. 

“I hope those aren’t my jeans,” Kira says. She watches Isaac flash a look at her over his shoulder before getting splashed by an irate Melissa, and going back to his work. Kira grins in response but it quickly fades away. She relaxes back against the wall, groaning a little and yawning. She shakes herself, and then turns back to the bed and finds both Lydia and Allison watching her. 

“Are you ok? You must be tired,” Allison says. “You took two back to back shifts. I’m sorry you had to do that.” Kira frowns at her, brow furrowing. 

“I’m not. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Besides if anyone should be asking how someone else is doing it should be us checking on you,” Kira says quietly. Allison closes her eyes, her face contorting in a wince. She squeezes Lydia’s hand and then lets it go, sitting up and moving to lean against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder with her. 

“I’ll be ok. I always eventually get back to being ok. It will just take a little time.” She looks down and sniffs a little. “I’m not the only one of us who has lost a parent. It doesn’t make me special.” 

“My parents are both dead, but I didn’t have to watch it happen,” Lydia says, running a hand down Allison’s back. Both girls turn to look at her in shock. 

“Oh, God, Lydia! When?” Kira asks. “I mean, we knew about your Mom, but your Dad? When? How?” she asks. She pulls herself off the window seat and moves across the room to sit on Lydia’s other side. Lydia shakes her head. 

“Two weeks ago. It felt distant, like it happened really far away. That night I woke everyone up with my nightmare. It wasn’t a nightmare. He went off to New York at the start of the summer with his newest bimbo. I’m sort of surprised that he lasted as long as he did. I mean you guys saw how bad it was in Beacon Hills. Can you imagine what it would be like in New York City?” she shakes her head, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “The higher population… the population density. Once this thing hit, there would have been no way out. Millions probably died in just a few days…” her voice trailed off, her eyes glazing over and her facing starting to go vacant. Allison presses against her side; her hand reaching for Lydia’s still twitching fingers. 

“Lydia,” she says softly. Lydia blinks rapidly and nods, turning to look at Allison. “You should have said something. You’re my best friend in the whole world. I love you. You can tell me anything and everything. You don’t ever have to hide things from me.” 

“From us,” Kira corrects. Lydia nods, looking down into her lap. 

 

Isaac sighs, swallowing thickly and turns away from the cabin. He scrubs at the grass stain on the knee of the jeans he’s holding. He startles just a little when Melissa’s hand settles on his wrist. He freezes, going perfectly still, an old reaction from years past. It takes only seconds to recognize the hand, the gentleness of the touch, and he quickly relaxes lifting his face to look up at her. She’s frowning, brow furrowed with worry. The care in her face makes his gut clench.

“Isaac, Honey, if you scrub any harder you’re going to wear a hole in the fabric,” she pries the denim out of his hands, and then reaches for him, wet hands tugging him into a hug. “Sometimes stains don’t come out. Sometimes they’re permanent. They can’t always be fixed. Sometimes you have to live with the damage.” She says. He hugs her back. 

“That’s sometimes easier said than done,” he mumbles as she pulls away. Melissa smiles at him softly. 

“Well it’s a good thing you, and she, have so many people to help you cope then, huh?” Melissa offers. He nods in acceptance. “Now…” she says reaching for a grimy t-shirt and tossing it at his chest where it hit with a loud splat, “back to the laundry.”

 

Derek runs in a continuous loop, slowing to a jog for a bit every once in a while to check on the pack before speeding back up again. He runs for what feels like hours, his senses tuned to the house and to the forest in equal measure. He runs to get rid of the anger coursing through his veins. He runs to feel the wind on his face, and the ground beneath his bare feet. He runs until it has grown dark and his legs are leaden. He runs until they give out from under him and he crashes to the ground at the base of a large oak tree. Breathing hard, he lets his body fall to rest against rough bark. He closes his eyes and lets himself shake. How in the hell were they going to make it through this whole mess alive?


	7. Scott stares out the window, eyes scanning the tree line on the far side of the lake.

7\. 

Scott stares out the window, eyes scanning the tree line on the far side of the lake. Stiles eventually passes out on the couch, legs still pinning Scott to his seat. And Scott spends his time stuck there checking on first the girls upstairs, then on his Mom, Isaac, and John outside, and then increasingly often and for longer periods of time on Derek as he runs lap after lap around the property. If Scott focuses hard enough he can hear Derek’s feet pounding across the forest floor, his lungs working hard to draw in a steady supply of oxygen, and his heart racing to keep up the pace. Even after Melissa appears in the doorway, damp but smiling just a little, Isaac following behind like a puppy, John bringing up the rear with a basket of dry clothes in his hands, Scott still watches and checks and watches some more. 

Kira, Lydia, and Allison come down a little while later. The three of them sprawl out on the other couch, and leave no room for anyone but Prada to join them. When it starts to get dark they light some candles and take over the kitchen, openings cans of meat and veggies. Kira breaks open a can of cheese whiz and starts squirting little piles onto crackers arranged on a chipped plate. Allison refuses Melissa’s offer for her sit down and rest and let Melissa take over. 

“Everyone else is doing their part. Don’t treat me any differently just because... Please?” she asks. Melissa studies her face for a moment before nodding. 

“After dinner you can help me sort through all the can goods,“ Melissa says. “I want to start planning out the next few days of meal plans.” Allison’s grin is quick and fleeting, barely there before it’s gone again. She ducks her head a second later, focusing intently on prying the lid off a can of Spam. 

Scott looks away from them, and watches Stiles’ nose twitch in his sleep for a second before turning back to the window. He hears Derek’s heart trip a beat, and then his feet stumble. Scott tenses, feels Isaac react instinctively on the far side of the room, where he’s rubbing Prada’s belly. Even the dog sits up at attention. Scott hears Derek’s heart slow, his breathing starting to slowly normalize, and the tension eases out of his shoulders. Isaac watches him intently as he slides out from under Stiles legs and stands up. Scott heads for the door. 

“I’ll go get him. Stay here.” Scott says. He doesn’t need to look at Isaac to know he’s been heard. He meets John’s inquiring gaze as he slides the door open and slips outside. 

 

Scott finds Derek sitting slumped against the tree, calmer than before, but still staring grimly down at the ground. Scott can smell the mixed emotions surrounding Derek, stronger than he’d managed to pick-up from the man in weeks. Derek looks up at him expectantly, obviously waiting for Scott to say something. Instead Scott just sits down next to him, close enough to feel Derek’s body heat, but not touching. 

“I don’t need a pep talk,” Derek says quietly. 

“Have I tried to give you one?” Scott replies. Derek scoffs at him and looks away. 

“Full moon tomorrow night…” he trails off, and Scott follows his gaze to the East where the nearly full moon is slowly rising, just barely visible through the trees. The pull was already starting to sing in his blood. He nods. 

“The day after, I want you and Stiles to go back into town.” Derek turns to look at him, frowning. 

“What? Why?” he asks. Scott takes a deep breath. 

“We need to find Argent’s gear. He wouldn’t have taken so long to catch up to us without a detour. Stiles said he was barricaded into the room you found him in?” Derek nods. “But you didn’t find a backpack or a duffle? Not a thing with him?” he asks. Derek shakes his head, forehead creasing. 

“No. He had maybe a day or two’s rations with him. He’d gone through most of it.”

“But no guns? No gear? Argent was never one to go anywhere unarmed. We need to find out what happened. Will you go back? I’m not going to order you.” 

Derek takes his time before answering hesitantly. 

“Ok. Fine. But only on one condition…” 

 

“Fuck no! Derek’s not going back there without me! Are you insane? There’s no way in hell he’s going by himself!” Stiles flings his hands around as he talks, swiping one through the air so harshly, Derek can almost perfectly imagine him decapitating someone with the force of it.

“Of course not,” Scott says, ever calm and infuriatingly rational. “He wouldn’t go by himself. Isaac would go with him.” 

“Isaac? Isaac the scarf wearer? Have you completely lost his mind? Have you forgotten how much he sorta definitely hates Derek? He’d just let him get eaten!” 

“I don’t hate Derek. I used to, granted. But we’ve moved past that in light of recent events. I’m perfectly capable of watching his back on what amounts to a milk run. Quite frankly I’m getting a little tired of hearing all the damn whining you do when you get back.” Isaac’s sneering words, which Stiles would usually take in good humor, causes quite a different reaction this time. 

Stiles freezes, his whole body tightening up with shock, and hurt, and then pure fury. He doesn’t whine! He comes back sometimes terrified, sometimes horrified, or exhausted (emotionally and physically). He complains about things. He bitches. That’s what Stiles does. But he doesn’t whine!

“Then by all means, Isaac. Come with us,” he says voice low and cold. He turned to glare at Scott and Derek who stand shoulder to shoulder next to the kitchen table. “But I’m not staying behind.” Scott and Derek exchange a tense look and both nod in agreement. 

“Ok,” Scott says. “You’ll all three go.” There isn’t a lot of talking for the rest of the evening. 

 

The morning after a full moon is always a little bit challenging. The wolves are both a little bit achey and sleep deprived from running around all night in the woods, but they’re also oddly bouncy and exhilarated, again, a side effect of running around all night in the woods. They’re also more touchy feely than usual. Especially with the humans in the pack.

Stiles climbs out of bed late. He takes his clothes to the bathroom and emerges ready for the day, only to find Derek hugging Allison, and Isaac about 2 seconds away from climbing into Melissa’s lap like an overgrown puppy. 

“If you two are done we should probably get going. It’s already getting late to be heading into town.” 

Melissa laughs and hands him a tote bag with their lunch and several bottles of water stored inside. She also hands him a clip of ammo for his gun. 

“From your dad,” she says, squeezing his shoulder, before heading toward the couch. “Juice. I mean it this time. Bring back some frickin’ juice!”

Stiles retrieves his backpack from his place by the door, and feeling the extra weight inside, takes it back to the kitchen table. He opens it up and sees his prizes from the last trip to town. He smiles, having forgotten them in his haste to bring back Allison’s dad. 

“Who wants presents!?” he calls. The whole lot of them descends like a pack of wild dogs, and the metaphor is almost enough to leave Stiles in hysterics. He passes out gifts, setting aside Kira’s tank top and his dad’s candy, before turning back to Allison. He has nothing for her. “Anything in particular you want this trip, Ally?” he asks a little afraid of what her answer might be. She gives him a half smile, tucking long dark hair behind her ear. 

“Bring me back something… something that reminds you of me,” she says. Stiles grins at her. It will probably end of being something beautiful but deadly. 

“That should be fairly easy. Just find something beautiful and sexy, but deadly.” Isaac says, arms folding around Allison’s waist from behind and tugging her backward. Allison rolls her eyes letting him kiss her cheek, before pulling away. She steps toward Stiles and reaches out to him for a hug. Stiles hugs her back. 

“Be careful,” she says quietly. 

Normally Kira takes her turns on patrol alone, but it had been universally decided that Allison was staying in the cabin until further notice. So Kira was accompanying John on his turn. Stiles doesn’t like not getting to say goodbye before they leave. But at least he has Scott there to see them off. Stiles lingers on the porch by the door listening to Scott ramble on and on about canned goods and medical supplies until Isaac honks the horn at them in impatience. Stiles flips him off without even bothering to look in his direction, while Scott laughs, looking sheepish. 

“We’re going to be fine,” Stiles says. Scott nods. 

“I know.”

“We’ll be back in time for dinner. Don’t let my dad eat too many of those candies.” Scott scoffs. 

“I’ve learned not to argue with your dad. That man has a gun and he knows how to use it!” Stiles can’t really argue with him on that point. He steps off the porch and walks to the car, already mentally mapping out their planned excursion. He reaches the front passenger window and glares at Isaac, yanking the door open and motioning to the backseat. 

“Move it, Asswipe. Front seat is my seat.” Isaac glares back at him. 

“I’m taller than you. And I was here first!” he objects. Stiles bares his teeth at him. 

“And I’m the one who knows where the fuck it is we’re going. You’re here as muscle, as back-up. Now get in the backseat.” 

Stiles ignores the smirk of amusement quirking up the sides of Derek’s mouth as Isaac grumbles and climbs out of the car. But Stiles can’t resist elbowing Derek hard in the side as he slides into the seat beside him. He’s won this round.


	8. Isaac asks a lot of questions.

8\. 

Isaac asks a lot of questions. About town, and how much of it they had managed to get through already. About the not-dead, and their recent activity. About where they would park and why. About how long this would take. Stiles sits, unusually quiet in his hard won front passenger seat as they head toward town. The road is practically deserted, only one of the not-dead walking slowly along it on their way to the highway. He lets Derek answer. When they reach the overpass Stiles starts rechecking his gun. 

“Head for The Yard first,” he says softly, not even looking up from where he’s counting bullets. Derek doesn’t even question it, just makes a right at the next turn and heads in the appropriate direction. 

“The Yard?” Isaac asks, leaning forward between their seats. He looks back and forth between the two of them. It reminds Stiles of a cartoon character. Stiles sort of wants to grab him by the face, and shove him back down into his seat. 

“There’s a small farm off the highway. They have a grove of trees, various kinds. Apples, peaches, plums, and cherries. Where did you think all our apples were coming from? We found it a few weeks ago, but we only had time to grab some apples before we had a couple of those things show up. Didn’t have time to grab much. I’m pretty sure they had avocados too.” Derek pulls into the driveway of the house, and then around back to the gated yard. The gate is open, and when he pulls to a stop, they wait until Derek nods, and Stiles gets out. He reaches under the front seat and pulls out his baseball bat. 

“Did you remember the bags?” he asks, squinting at Derek in the bright sun. Derek nods, and reaches into the back seat, hauling out a handful of canvas bags. He tosses a couple to Stiles and then hands a few to Isaac, keeping two for himself. 

Picking fruit and vegetables in the hot sun is hard labor, but rewarding. They take a bit of everything, enough to have variety, and for everyone to get a taste, but not enough that the food will spoil before it gets eaten. They can always return for more. They load the fruit into the trunk of the car where it will stay a little cooler. Stiles slams the trunk closed and climbs up to sit on top, looking entirely too pleased. Derek rolls his eyes at him, but smiles a little too. 

“Fork it over,” he says holding out a hand. Stiles tries to give him an innocent look. But Derek doesn’t waiver and so Stiles gives up the charade. He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a half-dozen ripe strawberries. 

“Don’t say I never gave you nothing,” he says. Derek eyes them a little wildly. 

“I thought they’d all been trampled!” he says. Stiles shrugs. 

“I found one survivor way in the back.” He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out another handful, offering them to Isaac. Isaac, with sweat and dirt staining his face and hands takes them eagerly. He’s eaten half of them before he notices that Stiles isn’t eating any. 

“Don’t you want some?” he asks. Derek watches them carefully as Stiles shakes his head. 

“Nah, I’m looking forward to some peaches later this week. They’ll take a few days to ripen. Go ahead,” he hops down, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, bat stuck under one arm as he heads around the car. “Come on, we have more ground to cover.” 

 

Allison looks around the shed, counting boxes of foodstuffs. There are bags of beans and rice, cases of canned vegetables, meat, and soup. They were still doing pretty good with their supplies from the Costco, but she has to admit, she’s already growing a bit tired of all the canned food. Lydia knocks on the open doorframe and Allison swings around, knife in one hand, pen in the other, clearly startled. Lydia eyes her worriedly, but calmly, not recoiling from the aggressive move.

“I don’t think that the not-dead knock,” Lydia says softly. Allison’s hands drop away, her eyes closing in apology.

“Sorry,” Allison says. Lydia smiles at her grimly. 

“Good instincts are important. They help to keep you alive,” Lydia says. She steps into the shed, and sits on a small stack of dried rice. “How are we doing?” she asks. Allison shrugs, still a little flustered. 

“Ok. I think we could hole up here for months with just this food and we would be fine.” She watches Lydia wince at the notion. She crouches, taking Lydia’s hands in her own. “You really don’t want to stay here do you?” she asks. Lydia sighs. 

“Ever since everything happened, the voices… they don’t really ever go away. They get quieter, less insistent, and a lot of the time I can’t even hear what they’re saying. They’re more like white noise, in the background. Almost comforting. But every night right when I start to fall asleep I can hear them crystal clear. We have to go East. We need to go East.” The second time she says it, it comes out almost desperate and Allison tightens her grip on Lydia’s hands, nodding. 

“Ok, ok. I understand,” she says quickly. “Scott has mentioned wanting to leave soon. I’m sure when we do, it will be East.” Lydia calms, swallowing thickly. A moment later she sits up straighter, back to her old self. The insecurity and fear seem to melt away and she is strong-willed take-charge Lydia Martin once more. She picks up the clipboard Allison had put aside earlier and together they start a proper inventory of their food supplies. 

 

“Anything?” Stiles asks. Derek shakes his head, leading the way around the corner and across the street to the bar. There were more broken windows, more strange scents lingering in the corners. Strangers had been here again. It makes Derek antsy. He wants out of here ASAP. But first they have a mission to complete. The bar is empty. They search the back room thoroughly, and find nothing that could point to where Mr. Argent had been these past two months. 

“We need to try and think like him. Where would he keep his gear?” Stiles asks. Derek and Isaac shake their heads. Derek’s attention goes to the window that opens to the side alley. He steps closer, peeking outside through the torn drapes. “What?” Stiles asks. Then he hears it, the roar of an engine coming straight up Main Street, loud and obnoxious. Derek yanks him away from the window, ducking down himself. Isaac follows suit, hands flexing at his sides, nails sliding out into claws and then back again, over and over. Anxious.

“What if they find the car?” Isaac asks. Stiles shakes his head. He scoops up his backpack tugging it onto his shoulders, and tying the strap across his chest. 

“That’s why we hid it,” Stiles says. Derek shoots them both a look. The engine sound quiets with growing distance, circling back around a minute later, and screeching to a halt just up the street. 

“A Motorcycle,” Derek says. “One rider. But there’s something else coming.” He goes to the other window, the one that has a partial view of the street. “A truck, five more men.” They pull to a stop outside, the engine rumbling loud before coming to a stop, the men yelling back and forth. “They’re going to attract everything in a 5 mile radius,” Derek whispers. They stay still, Isaac and Derek listening intently. Stiles, unable to make out the words, watches the two of them instead. Derek suddenly stands up straighter, Isaac reaching for the bag he’d set down by the door. They’re pulling Stiles silently out of the room and around to the back of the bar without even a whispered word of explanation. Stiles knows better than to demand answers just then and goes along for the ride. They dart through the ransacked kitchen, and ease open the kitchen door slowly. It opens into the back alley, next to the dumpster. 

Suddenly the world slows down and accelerates all at once. There’s a shout and a loud bang from the end of the alley, Derek shoves Stiles back and Isaac yanks him down. His feet fly out from under him and he falls back, hard. His head hits the concrete of the alley with a slam that makes his ears ring and causes pain to explode in Stiles’ skull. 

 

Lydia’s head flies up where she’s bent over counting cans of green beans. She lets out a little whine that has Allison turning to look at her in alarm, a can of carrots falling from her suddenly slack grip. 

“Lydia?” she asks, voice trembling. Lydia stares off into the distance, face draining of color, her brow furrowing. She whimpers, and Allison steps up to her, grabs for her hands, her heart racing in her chest, and tears already springing to her eyes. “Lyds?” she whispers. Lydia’s eyes roll in her head, coming at last to rest on Allison’s face. She sniffs once, then she opens her mouth and she screams.


	9. Stiles blinks slowly, wincing in pain, and barely able to focus on Derek’s...

9\. 

Stiles blinks slowly, wincing in pain, and barely able to focus on Derek’s horrified face looking down at him blurrily. Stiles bites back a groan, turning his head away from the sunlight that suddenly seems too bright, way way too bright. 

“Stiles?” Derek hisses, hands moving frantically. They pull at Stiles, dragging him back closer to the wall. Hands searching his front and back for a bullet hit. They don’t find one. The movement makes Stiles nauseous. And he groans. “Stiles! Look at me!” he demands. Stiles head lolls on his neck, and he barely catches sight of the bag, tucked in between the dumpster and the brick wall behind them before Derek’s hands pull his face back up and around, cradling his head, and checking the back with probing fingers that make Stiles hiss in pained reaction. He swipes weakly at Derek’s hands. 

“Derek,” Isaac whispers. He crouches near the edge of the dumpster, and peeks quickly around the corner. There’s another loud popping sound, then a second, and a third. The banging sound of the bullets hitting the metal of the dumpster is followed quickly by loud shouts and catcalls. Isaac ducks back down, pressing his back to the dumpster side. “Derek!”

Derek leans further over Stiles face, forcing his eyes open with thick fingers and checking his pupils. Stiles whimpers again, tugging his face out of Derek’s grip. His head reels with dizziness and he pushes at Derek’s chest in confusion. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, worry and guilt making his tone a touch desperate. 

“Mmm… m’ok. M’ok. Hurts,” Stiles manages to say. He struggles to sit up, and Derek helps him, leaning him up against the wall. There’s another spray of bullets against the dumpster. 

“Isaac and I need to go take care of this, ok?” he says. Stiles nods, closing his eyes and leaning it back against the brick. He winces again when his sore head hits the wall and lets it fall forward, reaching up to feel the lump already forming on the back of his skull. 

“Go. Go. I’m fine,” he says. He manages to nod, and the more he talks the more normal he sounds, the clearer his head feels. “Go kick ass,” he demands. Derek stares at him a beat too long before turning away. 

Stiles doesn’t see them go, isn’t able to formulate a mental picture of what’s going on around the corner. He’s dazed, his head hurts and the world is sparkling around the edges of his vision. This isn’t good. He cringes when he hears a particularly vicious growling sound, turning his head to the side to rest his temple on the cool brick. His eyes clench closed and then ease slowly open. He catches sight of the bag again. Pulling himself forward, he braces one hand on the dirty dumpster side, and reaches for the black strap. It’s a mostly flat bag down near the ground, wedged in tight behind the dumpster wheel. Stiles pulls and pulls, finally tugs it free, but almost falls over in the process. It’s heavier than he expects, but he pulls the strap over his head, and settles it’s weight securely across his shoulder and chest, before falling back into his seated position. He closes his eyes to breathe, fighting the urge to vomit, and trying to focus his brain. Six men, and he thinks those were probably gun shots. He presses his palm to his forehead, and lets out another groan. A sound from the end of the alley has his attention turning in that direction. 

It’s footsteps, heavy and foreign, scuffing over asphalt, and making their way slowly up the dirty alleyway. Stiles swallows thickly, body going cold all over. 

 

“Lydia, Sweetie you need to breathe,” Melissa says. Lydia curls up tighter, rocking back and forth, hands clamped down around her head. She sniffles, crying and shaking. Melissa shakes her head turning to look at Scott. He frowns, arms crossed over his chest with concern. 

“Take her upstairs. That scream… every not dead thing in a three mile radius probably heard it. Ally, Mom, try and see if you can get her to talk. John, you take watch out the back bedroom window. Kira, you take the front windows down here. No one goes outside,” he says. He walks across the living area to the footlocker next to the door. Balanced on top he finds the walkie talkie, the one they have tried not to use unless they absolutely had too. 

He doesn’t look back as he opens the door and steps outside, closing it carefully behind him. He jogs for about five minutes, heading to the top of a nearby hill to try and get a little height, then he finds a tall sturdy tree and starts to climb. When he’s cleared the majority of the nearby treetops, he stops, turning his attention back to the cabin. There’s nothing in the area but a single deer. He frowns, sure the scream would have attracted all the not-dead in the surrounding area. He turns to the walkie, testing its volume before pressing down on the button. 

“Pigsty, Pigsty, this is Ruby. Are you there?” he asks. He waits a beat. Listening. “Pigsty, this is Ruby. Please respond.” The code names had been, of course, Stiles’ idea. No one had bothered to try and argue with him. Pigsty for Stiles, and Ruby, because of Scott’s alpha eyes. Scott had only put his foot down when Stiles suggested calling him Dorothy. Ruby had been a compromise. “Hale Bale. Hale Bale, do you copy?” Scott leans back against the rough bark of the tree and tells himself they’re just out of range. That’s all. They’re just out of range. 

 

Stiles curls up on his right side, hand wrapping around the handle of his gun where it’s strapped to his thigh, hidden under the curve of his body. He flicks off the safety and takes shallow quiet breaths, letting his head hang, and making his face slack, his expression dazed. He wants to appear small and injured, even while he readies himself to attack. Stiles almost reacts when the radio goes off in his backpack. The first warning click of static warns of the impending voice, and he manages to stay still as the man rounds the corner of the dumpster. He pauses and Stiles can feel eyes studying him, assessing.

“Pigsty, Pigsty, this is Ruby. Are you there?” Scott’s voice is distant and slightly distorted. The man snorts with laugher, and steps closer. “Pigsty, this is Ruby. Please respond.” He comes up beside Stiles, reaches out with one toe to nudge Stiles in the hip. Stiles groans softly, but doesn’t otherwise react. The man bends closer, reaching for him. And only then does Stiles move. He strikes out with his left hand, shoving the man away, pulling his gun up with the right. The man stagers back, letting out a shout of surprise. Stiles glares at him, ignoring the way his head swims with the sudden movement. 

“What do you want with us?” he asks. The man sneers down at him. 

“What does anyone want?!” he says, smiling viciously. “Food, water, supplies! To survive!”

“And if you have to kill innocent people in the process?” Stiles asks. The man shakes his head. 

“Don’t act like you’re any better than us! Like you wouldn’t kill us and take what’s ours! We do what we have to!” he shouts. There’s an answering shout from a block or so away followed by gunfire, quick and desperate. It’s just enough of a distraction to pull Stiles’ attention away from the man for just a half of a second. He looks back immediately but the man is already reaching for a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. It’s instinct that makes Stiles fire. Once, twice, three times, and the man is down, blood gurgling out of his mouth, chest wheezing where Stiles’ bullets have shredded through his lungs. Stiles scrambles backward, forcing himself to look away as the man chokes to death on his own blood. 

“Hale Bale. Hale Bale, do you copy?” Scott’s voice snaps Stiles out of his shock. He turns, vomits what little is left in his stomach across the dirty alley wall, and then forces himself to stagger to his feet. He holsters his gun, braces himself against the wall to bend and scoop up his baseball bat, and then he turns away from the body and starts to run.


	10. The back-up scenario had always been, that if something went down...

10.

The back-up scenario had always been, that if something went down, if they were separated, that they would meet at the tallest building in town. So that’s where Stiles goes. 

There are dead bodies in the street. Some clawed, some shot. Some with their heads bashed in. Some are previously living. Some are previously living, but not recently so. All are really truly not getting back up dead. He counts three men, and a half dozen now dead undead. He moves quickly, keeping to the shadows as he winds his way around buildings. There is the sound of gunfire a couple of blocks over. But Stiles doesn’t head in that direction. He heads for the small office building one block over from main. It’s four stories, and taller than all the rest. It’s also ugly and lifeless and Stiles can’t help but feel like it got sucked up by an alien spaceship from the nearest city and dropped here. It’s not a surprise that most of the ground floor is up for lease. This town was dying well before it actually started rising from the grave. 

They’d cleared this building on the first day, stashing some water and a few rations of food on the roof, just in case. Stiles heads there now. He takes the stairwell, and pulls himself up the five flights to reach the roof with pure determination. When he reaches the top he is a little dismayed to find it empty. Their box of supplies is still hidden behind the old AC unit. It’s untouched. He slumps down to rest in the shade cast by the unit, and watches the door to the stairwell. He pulls the backpack off and scrambles inside for the walkie. 

“Ruby, Ruby. Pigsty here. Do you copy?” he asks. Scott answers in seconds, sounding relieved. 

“I’m here. Is everyone ok?” he asks. Stiles lets his head fall back and winces in pain at the contact with the hard metal wall. 

“I’m a little banged up. There were bandits. Up to no good. Goldilocks and Hale Bale tried to lure them away. I’m at the rendezvous. No sign of them yet.” There’s a long pause.

“Are you hurt?” Scott asks. 

“Only a little. I’ll be fine,” Stiles assures him. “I’ll get back to you in an hour unless our wayward puppies show up earlier.” Scott seems reluctant but Stiles reminds him that they have limited battery power, and they say goodbye. 

Stiles sighs and goes back to watching the door. 

 

Scott walks back through the cabin door feeling slightly calmer. Kira meets him in the living room with a hug and a kiss. He sinks into her for a second, shoulders buckling with a little of the relieved tension. 

“Stiles is ok. He got separated from Derek and Isaac. He’s going to call back in an hour,” he tells her. She smiles into his shoulder, and squeezes him a little bit closer. 

“I’m glad you got through,” she says. “Lydia’s calmer. But she isn’t talking. Your mom just took some tea up for her. Allison’s staying with her until things calm down some more.” He nods in acknowledgement, and squeezes her against him for a few seconds longer before letting her go. “What do you think this was?” she asks. 

“I don’t know. We’ve never understood how this works, especially not with the world as screwed up as it is now. It could be anything.” She nods, looking worried. 

“What do you need me to do?” He tucks some stray hair behind her ear and smiles, his hands dropping to her waist. 

”I didn’t see any of the not-dead outside. But we need to be on the look-out.” She studies his expression for a moment before smiling. 

“Here, give me the walkie. I’ll go up on the roof for little while. I’ll let you know the minute Stiles calls back. Why don’t you go check on Lydia?” Scott takes a deep breath, and reaches up to touch the side of her face. 

“I love you,” he says. He hands over the walkie talkie. 

“I love you too,” she says. She turns, watching him walk away. “And grab something to eat on your way up,” she orders. She watches him veer over into the kitchen and grab up a pack of crackers before starting up the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

 

Stiles must doze off, not a good idea with the current circumstances and recent head injury, because he jerks awake to a distant shout. He stumbles to his feet, leaving his bags beside the AC, and runs to the side of the building. He sees Isaac and Derek coming up the alley. Isaac is hurt, leaning heavily on Derek, with Derek supporting most of his weight. He pulls Isaac up the alley toward the side entrance of the building. It takes one good hit and the lock is broken. Stiles watches him drag Isaac inside and slam the door closed, just as a large group of the not dead round the corner. They continue up the alley, right past the door, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Then he pulls himself back up and across the roof. Stiles makes his way down the roof access stairs, and starts across the top floor toward the main staircase on that side of the building. He looks down the center of the stairwell and finds Derek and Isaac making their way up. Isaac does not look good. 

“Is he bit?” Stiles calls quietly. Derek pauses and his head jerks up to look at him. They’re filthy, covered in blood and dirt. They’ve obviously been through the ringer. Derek shakes his head and starts moving again. 

“No. Shot. Twice,” he huffs. Stiles moves away from the door, starting down the stairs. But a wave of dizziness hits him and he has to stop and grip the railing to avoid falling head first down the top flight to the landing below. ”Stop. I got him, just get the door.” 

Stiles watches Derek get Isaac into one of the conference rooms on the top floor. It’s got a good view of Main Street and has multiple exits. Isaac is bleeding from the leg and the shoulder. Derek ends up depositing him on the big board table in middle of the room. Stiles comes over to check on him. He pulls at Isaac’s t-shirt, tugging at the cotton. He has Isaac mostly out of it when Derek returns. He has Stiles bags in one hand, their box of supplies under the other arm. He slumps into a chair, while Stiles digs through the cans of food and bottles of water for the small first aid kit. 

“Did you get them all?” Stiles asks. Derek sighs. 

“Yes, I think so. There were… there was a whole swarm of the dead. The gunfire drew them. We had taken down two of them when they got Isaac. He fought through the first hit to take out the third. He got hit again and went down. Then the swarm came. They took out the two who had been firing on us. We heard the screams. I don’t know what happened to the last one. I never saw him.” 

“I got him,” Stiles said. “He attacked me in the alley after you left.” Stiles doesn’t look over at Derek. He doesn’t want to see the look on his face. 

“You ok?” Derek asks after a few minutes. Stiles has his supplies set out by now. He purposefully misinterprets the question.

“My head hurts. I think I have a concussion. But it’s not that bad. I haven’t lost consciousness again, and I’m functioning. I think I’ll be fine.” He turns to look at Derek then, frowns at the concern he sees there. “Come on Mr. Muscles, get over here and hold him down for me.”

So Derek does. He walks to the head of the table and presses his hands down to Isaac’s uninjured shoulder and the bicep of his hurt arm, respectively. Stiles has to remove the bullet before the werewolf healing factor can start to kick in, but Stiles isn’t trained in the finer arts of bullet removal. But he does the best he can. It’s painful enough to wake Isaac up. He thrashes. Derek is stronger though and he manages to hold him down long enough for Stiles to extract the slug. Isaac groans, fully conscious now, and not happy. 

“That fucking hurt,” he growls. Stiles lets out a snort that would be a laugh if his head didn’t hurt so damn much. 

“Grit your teeth, we’re not done yet,” he warns. Then he goes to work on Isaac’s thigh. This one is in deep. Stiles is half way down to where the bullet is lodged against the bone in Isaac’s thigh muscle when the alarm on his watch starts to beep at him. “Shit!” he says. Derek lets Isaac go. He’s awake enough now to grit his teeth and grip the table with both hands, but also keep his hips from pulling away. Derek grips Stiles wrist to find the button on his watch and turn off the alarm. “The walkie is in my bag, front pocket. I promised Scott I’d contact him,” Stiles explains. He ignores the way Derek’s hand seems to linger on his wrist before pulling away. Derek reaches for the bags. He pauses at the strange messenger bag. He picks it up and takes it to the table. He sets it down there. They both ignore the way Isaac bites back a loud groan, hand gripping the edge of table above his head hard enough for the edge to splinter and crack. 

“What’s this?” Derek asks pointing to the messenger bag. Stiles shrugs, focused on Isaac’s injury. He grunts with effort, finally pulling the bullet free. 

“Found it in the alley. Why?” Stiles asks. He leans in to check the wound again but it’s clear of debris. The hole in Isaac’s shoulder is already closing up. 

“It smells like Argent. It’s faint but it’s there.” Stiles stares at the bag with renewed interest and uses Isaac’s ruined shirt to wipe at the blood off his hands. Derek turns, bending to pick-up Stiles’ backpack from the floor. He gasps, and reaches out to brace himself when he pitches forward. He collapses to the floor with a groan. And Stiles is at his side in an instant. 

“Derek?” he asks. Derek holds up a hand to stay his advance. 

“It’s nothing,” he says pressing a hand to his forehead. It’s only then that Stiles sees how sweaty his face is, how flushed his cheeks are becoming. “I’m fine.” He braces himself on the seat of a rolling chair and pushes himself back up onto his feet. As he turns away from them, Stile sees the hole in the back of his shirt, the angry red blood streaking down his back. 

The sound he makes must be terrible, because Derek wheels around in alarm, almost falling over again with the too quick movement, and Isaac struggles to sit up. 

“Stiles?” Isaac asks, voice hoarse. 

“Derek,” Stiles gasps. He feels like he can’t breathe. His heart pounding in his chest, his lungs too tight to let in air. Panic flooding his system. “Derek, you’re bitten.” 

 

Lydia’s eyes fly open where she lays in bed miles and miles away. 

“Now,” she whispers.


	11. Allison turns from the window where she’s keeping watch to see Lydia climbing out of bed.

11.

Allison turns from the window where she’s keeping watch to see Lydia climbing out of bed. 

“Lydia?” she asks. Lydia hums to herself, and doesn’t acknowledge her. Allison eyes her carefully as she goes to the dresser and starts to empty out their clothes into a duffle bag. “Lydia?” she asks again. Lydia finishes with their clothes stuffing everything into one bag indiscriminately. She moves to the small night stand by the bed. She collects ipods, and other mementos into a nearby backpack, and doesn’t look at Allison. Scott appears in the doorway, watching Lydia with concern. 

“Lyds?” he says stepping into the room. At the sound of Scott’s voice, Lydia’s hands slow to a stop. 

“Scott?” she says, turning to look at him. She looks out of it, detached, confused. Scott steps closer. “Scott, we have to pack. We have to go.” She says softly. 

“We have to wait for the guys, Lydia. Stiles, and Isaac, and Derek. They’re in town. We can’t leave without them,” he says. She nods. 

“They’re going to need us. You should hurry. We have to go. Soon. We can’t be late.” Scott stares at her a minute longer, assessing, then turns to Allison. 

“Check the other rooms. We’re leaving.” She does as ordered without hesitation. He turns to the open window, sticking his head outside and raising his voice speaks upward. “Kira? Keep watch. Shout if anything is coming,” he orders. 

“K!” Kira calls down from the roof. Scott takes up the duffle bag and heads downstairs, Lydia following behind, already humming quietly to herself once more. 

 

“Bitten?” Derek asks. He reaches over his shoulder, trying to find it, but it’s too low on his back. Stiles nods, hands blindly reaching for a chair to sit down in. Isaac swings his legs off the edge of the table, reaching for Derek’s shoulder. He turns him around, inspecting the wound. Stiles hopes he’s wrong, that it’s a bullet graze or a stab wound from a knife or some other type of weapon. But Isaac goes pale, and his hands drop away instantly. Derek turns around, sees the look on Isaac’s face and just knows. His face hardens, and he nods, looking away. “Bitten,” he says, voice quiet but hard. There’s a finality to it that makes Stiles want to cry. “Isaac, let me know when you can run. We need to move.” He goes to the window overlooking Main Street and looks down, checking out the streets below for movement. 

“Derek?” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t look at him. He just moves back to the table. He packs up what has not been used from the first aid kit, and stuffs it into Stiles’ backpack. He adds the canned goods and supplies from their box, and looks around as if trying to think. “Derek?” Stiles asks again. Derek looks at him then, and Stiles sees the panic. “Derek you could be fine. We don’t know…” he trails off when Derek looks down and away. 

“Isaac?” Derek asks. Isaac eyes him carefully, before nodding. 

“I think I can run,” he says. The wound is almost closed on his thigh. If he runs it will likely tear back open again, but Stiles doesn’t say anything. 

“Then let’s go,” Derek shoulders the bag, and starts for the door. 

Isaac hops down off the table, reaching for his discarded machete. He wraps the belt and holster back around his waist buckling it into place, and then pulls his outer shirt back on. He stops at Stiles’ chair and grips him by the shoulder. 

“Come on, we have to go,” he says softly. Stiles nods, and stands up, grabbing the messenger bag and his baseball bat on the way out. 

 

Scott goes to his mother where she’s in the kitchen. “We need to start boxing up the food supplies,” he says. Melissa stops what she’s doing, and steps up to the counter beside him. John rushes down the stairs a moment later, looking confused. 

“Allison says we’re leaving? When?” he asks. Scott turns to Lydia, watching as she goes in circles around the living room gathering up everyone’s belongings into whatever bags she can find. Prada sits atop her pillow watching with confusion. Melissa starts opening cabinets, pulling down cans to rest on the counter.

“As soon as we’re packed. Lydia says it has to be now.” 

Scott pulls out their water canisters, and starts filling them with well water from the tap. He wants to take as much safe drinking water as possible with them when they go.

“Stiles? Derek and Isaac?” John asks. He’s helping Melissa load canned goods into boxes, emptying out the kitchen cabinets one at a time.

Scott pauses to check his watch. 

“Five minutes past check in, but you know Stiles,” he says. John frowns, but doesn’t say anything. “We’re going straight to get them, John,” Scott says. John nods, swallowing thickly. 

“I’ll go bring the SUV around. We need to empty out the shed.” He doesn’t wait for the ok, just grabs the key from the rack by the door and heads outside. 

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Melissa says. She takes one box of supplies over to sit by the door, and comes straight back. She pauses when she gets to Scott, and reaches out to hug him from behind. “We’ll see them all soon,” she assures him. Allison comes down the stairs just then; a second duffle full of clothing and supplies weighing her down on one side. She sets a gym bag down on the kitchen table. It clunks, heavy with ammunition. 

“We should reload our weapons before we leave. If they’re in trouble, they may need us to help them fight their way out,” Scott smiles at her and nods in agreement. 

“John went to get the Yukon. Can you go get the jeep?” he asks her. She nods and starts for the door. She pauses and picks up the box Melissa had set there on her way out. 

Scott turns to look at Lydia. She is collecting all of their most personal possessions into a pile on the couch. She’s working quickly, but not frantically. He watches her for a minute as she bends to roll up sleeping bags and blankets before turning back to finish his work with the water and then heading for the door to help load the cars. 

As he steps outside one thought goes through his head, “This place has just started to feel like home.”

 

Stiles feels numb, his head injury and the shock of finding out Derek is bitten making his brain slow down. He feels out of it, confused. He feels Isaac’s hand on the back of his hoodie, dragging him along as they make their way slowly through town, following Derek’s lead as he takes them back toward the car. Isaac’s limping a little, but he’s taken the heavy bag from Derek, who is clearly sick and fighting just to keep moving. Isaac’s face when Stiles glimpses it is hard and devoid of any emotion but determination. Derek doesn’t look back at them. Not once.

When they near the car, Derek seems to slow further. He pops the trunk, letting Isaac set the backpack inside. Stiles takes off the messenger bag, tossing it into the trunk too. Then Derek slams the lid closed and hands Isaac the keys. 

“You’re going to have to drive. His concussion is worse than he says it is.” Isaac takes the keys with a nod. They share a long look, and then Isaac turns away going to the driver’s side door and climbing inside. 

Derek grips Stiles by the elbow and walks him to the passenger side door. He opens the door and takes the gun and holster off of his belt. He sets them on the floorboard. When he stands up again, he reaches for Stiles once more.

“Time to go, Stiles,” he says. Stiles pulls away and looks at Derek in horror.

“You’re coming with us right?” he asks. Derek’s frown gets impossibly deeper. 

“No, I’m not. It isn’t safe. Just get in the car. You have to go,” Derek says, he looks over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles hears the gurgling sound of the not-dead getting louder. They’re coming. Strangely, he doesn’t care.

“I’m not going without you. We don’t even know if this can kill you. You could be perfectly fine!” Stiles says sounding a bit frantic.

“You’ve seen how fast and strong these things are. A werewolf could be a thousand times worse,” Derek says hurriedly. “I’m sick. I’ve gotten sick fast. This is happening. Just get in the car!” he orders. 

“No! I will not!” Stiles yells. He shoves Derek hard in the chest. “I am not leaving you here to die alone, and turn into one of those things. You are coming with us!” he demands. He’s up in Derek’s face hands gripping the front of Derek’s shirt. Some of the fight goes out of him at the expression on Derek’s face, his anger turning to desperation. He drops his forehead to rest on Derek’s shoulder. “Please! I can’t leave you here like this. Just come with us,” he’s begging and he doesn’t even care. 

“We have to go!” Isaac calls from the car. Stiles sinks further against Derek, and immediately feels arms come up around him. 

“Stiles, I’m as good as dead already,” Derek says, voice soft and pained. Stiles shakes his head. 

“No, you aren’t. Not yet,” he whispers. 

“Guys!” Isaac shouts, voice frantic. He has the car started now. Derek tenses and pushes Stiles away toward the car. He reaches down for Stiles gun, and pulling it free from his thigh holster, starts shooting over his shoulder. There are at least a dozen of the not-dead closing in on their position, some only feet away. Stiles opens the backdoor and tugs at Derek’s arm. 

“Come on!” he shouts and Derek gives in. He closes the front passenger door, and then slides into the back next to Stiles, still shooting. Isaac is pulling away before he can even close the door fully behind them.


	12. “Is that everything?” Melissa asks.

12.

“Is that everything?” Melissa asks. They have loaded up the jeep and SUV with all of their salvaged food and supplies. John sits behind the wheel of the Jeep, ready to go, with Kira beside him. Scott nods. 

“I think so,” he says. Lydia steps outside, closing the door to the cabin. She has Prada under one arm, and a throw pillow from the couch under the other. Scott eyes it in confusion. She shrugs. 

“It’s Prada’s favorite,” she says. She opens up the back door of the SUV and climbs inside. Melissa smiles at her, shaking her head, and then turns to Scott. 

“Sweetie, you go get, Allison. We’re ready to move when you are,” she nods toward the backyard. He watches her get into the front passenger seat of the SUV and shut the door. Scott takes a deep breath and heads around to the back of the house. Allison is crouched next to the still fresh grave, fingers tracing the sketched lettering of the makeshift headstone. 

“He would have hated that a werewolf made his plaque. But he’s not really here to complain is he?” she asks. She doesn’t bother to turn around. 

“I’m sorry we can’t stay longer,” Scott tells her. She stands up, readjusting the bow on her back. She turns, tucking long dark hair behind her ear. 

“He’s gone. No reason to stay. What made him my Dad is gone,” she says. She walks toward him. “Everyone ready?” she asks. He nods, reaching for her hand. She lets him take it, and squeezes his palm where it fits perfectly against her own. 

“They’re waiting for us,” he says. 

“Then let’s go. It doesn’t surprise me we have to go save them. I never should have let Isaac go along. He always gets into so much more trouble when one of us isn’t there to supervise,” she says with a smile. Scott laughs in reply and they start walking back around the house toward the cars. 

“True. Hopefully it’s nothing too serious. And we’re only leaving a few days ahead of schedule.” They round the front of the cabin, and he raises his voice a little as he says: “I’m half convinced this is all just Lydia trying to get us moving East East East,” he jokes. 

“I heard that!” Lydia yells out the open window of her car. 

“You hear everything!” Scott yells back. Allison rolls her eyes, climbing up into the back passenger seat. Melissa is laughing in the front, Prada curled up in her lap.

“Come on, Scott. We should get going,” she says. Scott settles into the driver’s seat and grins at Lydia in the rearview mirror. She’s braiding her hair in the back, looking almost at ease with the world. 

“Tick tick tick,” Lydia says meeting his eyes in the mirror. The seriousness in her expression is sobering. 

“Town?” he asks, putting the SUV in gear. She frowns. 

“Head that way. I’ll let you know when to turn,” she says, tying off her braid with a hair tie. 

 

Stiles grips his gun in one sweaty hand. Derek is slumped against the rear passenger side door, his forehead pressed to the glass. He’s sweating, burning with fever, and he moans with every bump in the road, like his bones ache. 

“Isaac,” Stiles says. “Isaac, we need to find someplace. Somewhere to go.”

“Like where?” Isaac asks. Stiles swallows thickly. 

“We have to take him somewhere comfortable. To wait it out. We can’t go back to the cabin. He’s right. It’s too dangerous. If he... if he turns it could be really bad,” Stiles ignores the way Derek’s eyes focus on him. 

“Motel,” Derek whispers, voice hoarse. 

“Yes! Good idea! Excellent idea! There’s a motel off the interstate. That little run down place off 22,” Stiles says. “Turn around, it’s back two exits. We’ll take him there.” Isaac doesn’t object, just does a U turn right in the middle of the highway and goes back the way they’d come. It will always be disconcerting driving the wrong way on the highway. They drive in silence for a few minutes, Stiles offering directions when he needs to. 

“You should have just left me,” Derek says after a few minutes of quiet. Stiles doesn’t bother to reply. 

 

The motel is clearly abandoned, and it had also clearly been in pretty bad shape even before the world had gone to shit. They drive around to the back of the U shaped motel, and park there, hidden from view by passerby. Stiles shoots out the lock of the office, and finds the key to the room closest to where they had parked the car. He also finds the key to the vending machines hidden under the desk. When he gets back he finds Derek leaning on the outside of the car, while Isaac watches him wearily. Stiles gives him the vending machine key, and one of their spare bags. 

“Go get what you can. I’ll get him inside.” Isaac frowns, eyeing Derek like he’s going to turn at any moment and rip Stiles’ throat out. But that isn’t any more likely than it had ever been before. Stiles opens the door to the room, checks it over and then herds Derek inside, grabbing his backpack on the way. “Go on, Isaac. We’ll be fine for the ten minutes it will take you.” He waits until Isaac has left to shut the door. He leans against it for a moment. Then he turns around to face Derek. He finds him sitting slumped on the end of the bed. 

“Lay down. Let me clean your wound,” he says. Derek shakes his head. 

“Stiles, please,” he says, sounding pained and a little desperate. 

“No. I am not going to just accept that it’s over. Now let me clean your goddamn back!” he says, digging out the first aid kit. This time Derek doesn’t argue. He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and slowly, painfully, pulls it up and off. 

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” he says, groaning as he lays back and rolls over onto his front. Stiles doesn’t reply. He climbs up to sit beside Derek on the bed. He cleans the wound, which looks raw and vicious. It’s red, and still bleeding. There’s black goo coming out of the deepest edges. He almost smiles at the sight of it. 

“Your body is fighting the infection,” Stiles says. He presses a bandage to the wound, carefully taping down the edges. 

“That doesn’t mean it will win,” Derek sounds defeated and Stiles has to resist the urge to punch a pillow in his anger.

“Do me a favor and just shut up for a little while,” he says. He starts to move away but Derek’s hand catches his wrist, stopping him mid move. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Derek says. 

Stiles is saved from having to answer by Isaac barging back into the room, arms loaded with cans of soda, candy bars, and small bags of chips. He eyes them carefully, before dumping it all on the end of the bed, and bolting the door closed again. 

“Please tell me you found me a Twix?” Stiles asks. He moves away from the Derek, collapsing in the decrepit chair next to the door. Stiles takes the time then to remove his holster and gun, setting them on the side table while he watches Isaac pull the curtains tighter closed, blocking out even more of the late afternoon sunlight. Isaac gives him a hard look and doesn’t respond to his question. Instead he sits on the edge of the very end of the bed, putting his body directly between Derek and Stiles. Stiles would be touched if it didn’t piss him off so damn much. In reaction he stands up and goes to sit on the bed next to Derek, under the guise of going through the vending machine goods. He dumps the bag out, sorting it into piles. He finds a pack of Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and his throat goes dry. He stares at it for a minute before looking up at Derek, who’s watching him through hooded eyes. He’s pale and flushed at the same time. It’s not a good look on him. 

“Have you ever even had a fever before?” Stiles asks. Derek coughs and then grimaces, shaking his head no. 

“No,” he says. Stiles nods, and sets the Reeses aside. He digs into his bag for a water bottle and the radio. “Here,” he says, offering the bottle to Derek. Derek shakes his head. 

“You need it more than I do,” he says, voice pained. He blinks slowly, and winces with each jostle of the bed as Isaac and Stiles move. Stiles stands, and walks around the bed. He moves the lamp off the side table and sits there, closer than before. He offers the bottle again. 

“Stop being an asshole,” he says. 

Derek stares at him for a few seconds before finally taking the bottle. He picks his head up to sip at the water, choking and gagging as it goes down the wrong pipe. Stiles moves to his side, helping Derek sit up to drink properly. He takes a few sips successfully, and then lays back down against, breathing labored from the effort. He’s getting sicker. Fast. Abnormally fast. Stiles watches him carefully as he starts to cough again. Only this time he doesn’t stop. Stiles jumps up again, and reaches for him, pulling him over onto his side and patting his back, being careful not to pound too closely to the wound. Derek hacks again and again, and then with a gurgling sound, he throws up black goo all over the floor beside his bed. Stiles barely gets his feet out of the way in time. Derek groans, pushing back to sprawl across the bed again. His eyes are glassy, and he doesn’t say a word as he stares up at the ceiling. Stiles looks away from him, eyes meeting Isaac’s. Isaac looks away and his hand tightens on the handle of his machete. Stiles feels his whole body start to go cold with terror. Standing he picks up the radio and heads for the door. He unlocks it with quick hard movements, yanking it open with far too much force. 

“Stay here. Don’t kill him.” 

Isaac’s hand on his wrist stops him from walking outside. He turns around, face angry, but Isaac is holding out his gun to him. Stiles takes it with a nod, and resists the urge to slam the door behind himself.


	13. Melissa stares out the window in horror as they finally reach the highway.

13.

Melissa stares out the window in horror as they finally reach the highway. Scott leads in the SUV, John following behind with the jeep. The highway is empty. A car or truck abandoned here and there, a string of them blocking off an exit ramp, but really there is no movement anywhere. Stiles and Derek had spent the first few trips just harvesting gas and supplies from abandoned cars. Melissa stares out the window as they continue up the road, one hand pressed to her mouth, trying hard not to cry. They’ve been secluded in the cabin. Only Stiles and Derek having left their little patch of wilderness with any regularity. Melissa and Lydia hadn’t left at all, not even to enter the woods for patrol. She sniffles a little, biting back the urge to cry. Scott reaches out for her hand, where it lays limply in her lap. He holds it tightly, trying to reassure and comfort her. 

“It’s bad,” he says. She nods in agreement. 

“I never would have imagined we’d be living in a world like this. Not even after I found out about the whole werewolf thing. I mean, people dying and coming back to life? If you can even call it life…” she trails off. “Who could have predicted this?” she asks. 

Lydia’s quiet humming in the backseat cuts off abruptly. And Allison fights to hold back a giggle. Lydia nudges her with an elbow, and picks up Prada to hide her face in the dog’s soft furry back. Melissa looks back over her shoulder at them. 

“What?” she asks. Allison’s giggles break free, and Scott shakes his head. “Guys!?” Scott reaches for her hand again and gives it another squeeze. 

“Peter?” he prompts. “Peter Hale? Ring any bells?” Melissa turns away, covering her mouth with one hand as it drops open in shock. She closes her eyes and shakes her head, face heating with embarrassment. The amusement fades away fairly quickly.

“Oh God, how could I have forgotten?” she says quietly. 

“Still, he was an entirely different type of undead,” Allison reasons. 

“Peter was worse,” Lydia says gazing out the window. “These things,” she says as they pass a small group of the undead on the highway, “they don’t think. Everything that made them human has been wiped away. They aren’t aware of what they’re doing. You can’t hate them; only whatever virus or infection is making them do this. Peter knew exactly how cruel and selfish and evil he was. He just didn’t care. I think the fire burned away whatever good was in him to begin with. Leaving only the bad behind. But these things, they’re completely empty in comparison.” The car falls into silence. 

 

“Ruby, come in. This is Pigsty,” Stiles leans against the side of an abandoned car on the far side of the parking lot and tries not to cry. “Ruby? Please respond.” Stiles slumps a little, sliding down the hood of the car to sit on too hot asphalt. “Scott?” he tries. There’s nothing but static in response. Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest and closes his eyes. “Come on, Buddy. I really need you guys to respond,” he tries. He looks at the tall thick trees bordering three sides of the lot, and shakes his head. No signal. They’re on their own.

 

John follows a little way back from the SUV driven by Scott. He doesn’t want to be too close in case something unexpected happens, but he is close enough to see tail lights. Kira sits quietly beside him. She flinches every time they pass one of the not-dead on the side of the road. Finally she can’t take the silence and turns to him.

“If this is what the highway is like, how bad will Town be?” she asks. She’s got her sword draped across her lap, her hand on the handle. 

“I don’t know. But I’m going to have a little talk with my kid later about downplaying the truth with me. I had no idea what we were sending them out into every few days. Certainly not this.” He thumps the window with one hand for emphasis. 

“I’m surprised Lydia ever stops screaming,” Kira whispers. She looks down into her lap. 

“I don’t think she really does. I think she just bites it back. She holds it in. I think she’s becoming desensitized to it. She’s adjusting to the increased level of noise in her head.” 

“But she hears some things clearly. We know she does. She screamed for Mr. Argent. She screamed today.” John nods in acknowledgement. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, his mouth pulling down in a frown when Scott suddenly takes a different exit, one that is not on the way to Town. 

“Yeah, now she only screams about the big things,” he glances at Kira’s face. “That’s what scares me.”

 

“Please,” Derek begs. He’s curled into a ball on his side, body racked with fever, and groaning in pain. His eyes are leaning toward delirious, and when he manages to focus his gaze on Stiles’ face his eyes are glassy and desperate. “Please, Stiles. Please,” his voice is hoarse, broken. He coughs, black liquid crud bubbling from his mouth, and the pain it causes him makes him cry out again. 

Stiles sits, three feet away, hands shaking and face pale as he watches. 

“It’s happening too fast. It’s supposed to take longer than this!” Stiles says.

“Stiles,” Isaac says softly, pleading a little. ”Stiles, we have to stop this!” He reaches for Stiles shoulder, but Stiles pulls away, shaking his head. 

“I’m not going to kill him! I’m not going to murder him! And I’m not going to let you do it either!” Stiles shouts. He jumps up, moving away from the bed, arms crossing over his chest. Derek lets out a sob on the bed. He throws up again, more black streaking the comforter. 

“I’m already dead!” Derek shouts, gasping for air. He coughs again, wincing and clawing at the bed next to him. “Stiles, I’m already dead. Please!” he begs. Stiles turns to look at him again. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t think he CAN do this. He moves closer, stepping around Isaac to stand next to Derek’s side. He crouches down to meet him at eye level. 

“Please don’t ask for this,” Stiles says. “I don’t… I can’t!” he shakes his head, wincing with the way it makes his headache flare up behind his eyes. He grips the comforter of the bed with one fist to stave off the wave of dizziness that rushes over him. “Derek, we can’t do this without you. We can’t lose you,” he says softly. Derek stares at him, still pleading. 

“I’m begging you,” he whispers. “I don’t want to turn. I don’t want to hurt you. Please! It hurts!” Stiles shakes all over, emotions warring inside him, but finally he nods. 

“Ok. Ok.” He turns to look at Isaac and nods again. Isaac takes a deep breath and looks away, but not before Stiles sees the pain in his expression, the way his forehead is furrowed, and how he’s biting the inside of his cheek. He moves back as Isaac steps up to Derek, crouching down next to the bed. Stiles stands up and steps back, forcing himself to look at the ugly wallpaper peeling off of the motel room wall.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says. “I should’ve…” Derek shakes his head. 

“You couldn’t have stopped this. You had my back. Just take care of them all. Scott’s going to need you even more now,” he says. His voice barely sounds like his own. It’s weak, strained. Isaac nods. Derek reaches for his hand, gripping it tightly. “I’m sorry. I should have been better for you. For my pack.” Isaac looks away. 

“You turned out to not be as big a douche as you sometimes pretended to be. I’ve learned a lot from you,” Isaac says. Derek nods in understanding. Isaac stands up and moves away, arms crossing over his chest. Stiles doesn’t move. After a long beat he turns to look at Isaac. 

“Just let us have a minute?” he asks. Isaac’s frown gets impossibly deeper. “Please?” Stiles looks away as he says it, eyes focusing instead on a dust mote floating slowly across the room. Isaac moves to the door, checking outside carefully before slipping out the door. Stiles has no doubt that the werewolf is still right there, back pressed to the closed door, ready to spring back inside at a moment’s notice.

Stiles can’t look at Derek, so he looks around the room instead, taking in the dusty table tops and frayed shabby furniture. He walks in a slow arch until he gets to the other side of the bed. He can feel Derek’s eyes watching him, hearing his wheezing labored breaths. Stiles crawls into the bed beside him, laying down next to Derek, and curling up there. Derek groans, forcing his body to roll onto his left side to face Stiles. Only then does Stiles let himself really look. 

Derek’s pale, the color drained from his features leaving him pale and grey except for two bright pinks spots of color on his cheeks from the fever. His hair is wet with sweat, and his eyes are a touch glassy, deep bruises forming under them. He looks sick. Stiles has only ever seen him look sick one other time. When Kate shot him with the Wolfsbane bullet back in Sophomore year. This is worse, way worse. Stiles wants to stop this, fix it somehow but he knows he can’t. And seeing the strain in Derek’s expression, the tears in his eyes, and the sick look of his complexion lets him fully accept that there is simply no fixing this. This is a death sentence. Even for a werewolf. 

 

Lydia squirms in her seat, her knee jiggling against the door of the car. 

“Lydia?” Allison asks. Lydia makes a high whining sound in the back of her throat and rubs at her temples. “Scott, I think we need to hurry,” she says. Scott glances over his shoulder at her, then at Lydia in the rear view mirror. He steps on the accelerator.


	14. Derek closes his eyes, brow furrowing in a wince, and groans.

14\. 

Derek closes his eyes, brow furrowing in a wince, and groans. There’s a streak of black bile on his chin, and Stiles tears off part of his t-shirt’s hem to clean it away. Derek’s hand catches his wrist, sliding down to cup the back Stiles’ hand, thumb pressed to his palm. His eyes sliding open slowly. He seems resigned, calmer. Like now that he knows it’s going to end soon he doesn’t have to worry about what is happening inside of him. 

“Hey,” Derek says quietly. Stiles head slumps to rest on an old dusty pillow. 

“Hey,” he replies voice quiet. He turns his hand over to grips Derek’s.

“We could have been great you know,” Derek whispers, voice as quiet as he can possibly make it and still be audible to Stiles. Stiles knows Isaac can probably still pick-up on it, even with a motel room door between him and them. The walls aren’t that thick in a place like this. “You and me.”

“Fucking figures that now is when you choose to talk about that one thing we never talk about…” Stiles says. Derek smirks at him just a little, letting out a little laugh, and then bringing up his other hand to hide the resulting cough. 

“We never talk about a lot of stuff. We never talk about this because it never seemed like the right time. But I’m running out of time.”

“It is useless talking about what ifs, Derek. I learned that a long time ago. At least you won’t have to put up with any more stale breakfast cereal or my smelly armpits ruining your day,” Stiles says. 

“Honestly, I don’t really mind one of those all that much,” Derek says, his hand tightening around Stiles’. He doesn’t need to clarify which offensive thing he really means. It would almost be romantic if Derek weren’t dying right in front of his eyes. They fall silent, Derek’s shallow breathing the only sound between them for a moment. After a few minutes of silent staring Derek makes a small pained sound, his breath hitching quickly, painfully, in his lungs. 

“It hurts,” Stiles says. It’s not a question. Derek nods anyway. 

“I need your help, Stiles. I trust you to do this. To help me.” Derek stares at him for a long moment. “I don’t want it to be you. But it seems fitting, huh? You’ve saved me more times than anyone else. Even Scott our fearless Alpha.” Stiles almost smiles at that. 

Instead of replying he finds himself staring at Derek, studying the features of his face. He notices for the first time all the ways Derek’s changed since they met. His cheeks are rounder, and furrier, and yet somehow more haggard. His eyes are the same clear hazely kaleidoscope of green. They’re somehow softer than they were two years ago, and in this particular moment they’re more scared and pained then Stiles has ever seen them before too. And Stiles has got to do this. 

It all comes down to one simple thing that isn’t really simple at all. Derek’s spent his whole life trying to not become a monster. He’s actively fought against the darkness that pain, betrayal, and rage could have easily grown inside him. He’s suppressed the need for revenge. He’s lived with the guilt, and the loss, and all the other emotional shit that comes with being tortured and manipulated and having everything that means anything to you ripped away and burned to the ground right in front of you. He could have become Peter. And he hadn’t. Stiles won’t let him turn into an actual literal monster now. He won’t let him become an abomination. Not when he can stop it. He moves closer, pressing his forehead to Derek’s. His skin is sticky with fever sweat and nearly hot enough to burn. Stiles closes his eyes. 

“Derek, how do you want me to…?” he stops unable to continue. How do you ask someone how best they would like you to kill them? He lets the words hang unsaid between them. 

 

Isaac leans his head against the brick wall beside the door to their room. He lets his forehead press hard into the rough texture of the dirty red brick. He listens to the careful conversation happening inside, and winces at the unasked question. He grits his teeth, waiting, and letting his head thump against the wall one more time before standing up straight again when no more words can be heard. He takes a deep breath before reaching down and twisting open the doorknob. He steps into the dusty darkness of the motel room. Stiles sits up quickly, startled, looking at him in confusion. Isaac walks to the table. Without saying a word he pulls Stiles’ gun from the holster there. He retrieves the silencer from the side pocket of Stiles’ backpack and screws it into place. Then he walks over to the bed and hands the whole thing over to Stiles. Stiles takes it from him with shaking hands, and turns back to Derek, jaw clenched. Derek nods his head in agreement, eyes never leaving Stiles face. Isaac turns away, and quickly leaves again, going back outside to wait it out. As selfish as it may be, he doesn’t want or need to see this. He’s not the one Derek had asked. And he can’t bring himself to volunteer to do it in Stiles’ place. 

 

Voices flash through Lydia’s head. Hushed warnings and dire scenarios, and whispered desperation. There’s so many voices, so many people trying to guide her, and warn her, and help her. It’s hard to push through it all. To get to the clearest voices, the ones with the best information to share. The tide of sound is almost overwhelming and she finds herself quietly humming some soft lullaby she only half remembers. It blocks out the voices that don’t matter as much. The ones that don’t have the information she needs. 

They’re getting closer, catching up. But time is moving too fast. Things are happening too fast. They might not make it. Every second that ticks by is tipping the scale in the wrong direction. Faster. They need to go faster. 

“Faster. Faster,” she mutters quietly. She squeezes her eyes shut tightly, and curls over her lap, hands reaching down and gripping the leather of the seat under her with a brutal grip. She makes a high-pitched desperate sound that has Allison sliding up next to her side. Allison hesitates only a moment before touching her, one long arm sliding around Lydia’s shoulders. 

“Lydia,” Allison prompts. Lydia presses into her side even as she doesn’t respond verbally. “Scott!” Allison says. 

“I don’t know where to turn!” Scott says back. He hands the radio to his mother. “Mom, try them again!” he says. Melissa takes the radio quickly and tries to hail Stiles or Isaac or Derek. She tries over and over again. When she still gets no response she turns to Lydia in the backseat. 

“Honey, we need you to talk to us. What’s going on?” she asks. Lydia sits up more, tears starting to slide down her face in frustration and heartbreaking fear. 

“Please,” Lydia pleads. “We have to stop him! Scott, you have to stop him!” she says. Scott looks at her in the rearview mirror. 

“Stop who? Lydia, I need more information!” 

“Stiles! He’s going to shoot him!” Lydia sobs. Scott’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

“Lydia, tell us everything you can. Anything that can help us find them,” Melissa urges. 

“A… a motel. Red brick,” she gets out.

“Which way?” Allison asks. 

“That way,” she points East, and Scott makes the next turn. He sees the motel almost immediately after turning onto the road, still maybe half a mile away. Scared and terrified he honks his horn. Melissa pulls off her seat belt. Rolling down her window she leans her upper body out of the car and hoping no else is around to hear, she opens her mouth to shout. 

“Don’t shoot!” she screams. “Don’t! Don’t shoot!” 

 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, unable to look at Derek any longer. 

“I’m sorry. Derek, I am so sorry. I…” he whispers. Derek shakes his head, wincing in pain at the movement. He touches the hair on the side of Stiles’ head, hand sliding around to carefully cradle the back of Stiles’ skull. Stiles open his eyes again to look at him. 

“Don’t be sorry. Just do it. I need you to,” he whispers. He reaches for Stiles’ hand holding the gun. Helps him to pull it up until the end of the extended barrel is pressed to the side of his head. “Close your eyes,” Derek says. Stiles does as ordered squeezing his eyes shut, his finger moving to rest on the trigger. 

 

Isaac picks his head up, turning toward the main road. There’s a car coming. Fast. The driver honking their horn almost frantically. He recognizes the Yukon seconds before he hears Melissa’s voice, screaming out her message. 

“Don’t shoot! Don’t! Don’t Shoot!” she screams, the SUV speeding closer with every passing second. 

Isaac dives for the door. The cheap wood bangs hard against the inside wall, the wood splintering at the hinges with the force of his hit. He steps inside just as the gun goes off with a muffled bang and a flash of light.


	15. Stiles stares wide eyed down into Derek’s face, his breath hitching in his chest, and tears streaking his face.

15.

Stiles stares wide eyed down at Derek, his breath hitching in his chest, and tears streaking his face. Derek’s hand squeezes around his wrist, pulling his Stiles’ trembling wrist down out of the air above them to let the gun rest beside them on the mattress. Stiles lets it go immediately, unclenching his hand. The stare at each other for a long moment, Stiles fingers curling around Derek’s, and Stiles’ heart is beating so hard and so fast in his chest that he feels like it might explode. Above them a hole marks the wall where Derek's quick movement had redirected Stiles aim. 

“Stiles! Derek!” Stiles feels himself being pulled back with gentle force, and then Scott’s there, turning him around. His face is flushed, and he looks panicked. “Stiles?” he asks. His eyes scan across Stiles before landing on Derek. 

“Bitten. He’s been bitten,” Stiles says. Scott nods, forehead creasing. He turns away. 

“Get Stiles up. Take him next door. To one of the other rooms. I want Lydia in here. And Mom. She’ll need her medical kit.” Stiles is pulled up and only once he’s upright does he realize what’s really happening. 

“He wanted me to. Scott?” he asks, struggling against the grip he knows is Isaac. Scott turns to him, reaching for him. He grips Stiles by the shoulders. 

“Stiles!” he says and his voice is so firm and commanding that Stiles goes still instinctively. He squeezes Stiles’ shoulders with both hands. “Go next door,” his voice is gentle, but authoritative and Stiles nods in acceptance. Melissa jogs into the room as Stiles is tugged away. She looks harried, worried as she moves toward the bed, her bag dragging her shoulder low. 

“On his back. It’s on his back,” Stiles calls out as Isaac pulls him toward the door. “And it hit him hard and fast!” he says over his shoulder. He steps out into the bright sunlight, stumbling a little as Isaac loosens his grip, and groaning at the brightness of the late summer sun. He reaches up to cover his eyes. He’s being hugged before he knows what’s happening. It takes longer than it really should to identify the arms around him, the shoulder his face is pressed into. 

“Dad,” he whispers. “Dad’s he’s bit. Derek’s bit,” he keeps saying it, as if they can’t possibly have caught on to the magnitude of what he’s trying to say to them. John’s arms tighten around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Stiles winces in reaction, flinching and pulling away at the contact. 

“What’s wrong? Your head?” he’s spun around and a second later large hands are cradling his head while fingers gently probe the knot that had formed there earlier in the day. He winces again. “Jesus kid,” John says his arms dropping down around Stiles’ middle and tightening there. “Let’s get you inside. Isaac with me,” he says. 

All it takes is one good kick courtesy of Isaac and they have the room next door open. Stiles has half a mind to yell at them for it. The keys are in the office. Now the door can’t be closed securely behind them. But his head is pounding and he almost shot Derek, almost killed Derek, and he can’t get the words out. Isaac checks the bathroom before giving them the all clear to come in. Kira is at Stiles’ side a moment later, helping his father guide him to the bed. 

“I’m fine. It’s a just a bump,” he says. Isaac snorts. 

“Derek said it’s a concussion and that it’s worse than he says it is.” Stiles wants to glare at him, but turning too swiftly makes the world tilt alarmingly. So he glares at the wall across from the bed instead. Kira fusses at the side table beside the bed and returns with several Kleenex. She hands them to him and when he doesn’t move, takes them back again and wipes at the tears still sliding down his face. Allison bustles in, a bag of gear over her shoulder. 

“I moved the cars back away from the street some, how is he?” she asks. She sets the bag down on the end of the bed, her words had been meant for Stiles but her eyes sought out Isaac and immediately started scanning down his body from head to toe checking for damage. They narrowed at the blood staining the thigh of his jeans. 

“He’s got a bump on the head. Likely a concussion,” Kira says. She’s suddenly in Stiles face, checking his eyes with a flashlight. He winces flinching away from the brightness. 

“Hold still, Stiles,” his dad orders. He turns toward Isaac, nudging Allison toward him with a pat on the back. “How did it happen? Did he lose consciousness?” Allison wraps herself around Isaac like a blanket as Isaac starts to explain.

Stiles tunes out the retelling, his eyes closing in pain and exhaustion. Before he knows it he’s falling unconscious again. 

 

Lydia sits in the corner, watching Melissa and Scott fuss around Derek. She wants to go next door, to check on Stiles. Derek’s worse off though, she knows, so she stays put. He’s hurting, groaning and crying out in pain as Melissa and Scott roll him over to check his wounds. 

There is a lot of back and forth between the two McCalls, Melissa asking for supplies and Scott finding them for her. Melissa cleans the wound more thoroughly, re-bandages it, Scott starts an IV. Derek’s sweating, his skin a sickly pale grey color. His eyes are glassy, and red, and Lydia desperately wishes she could fix this somehow. But all she can do is sit and watch and listen. 

 

Scott helps his mother grind up small white pills, crushing them into a powder. 

“How can this possibly help?” Scott asks. “I thought you said there wasn’t a treatment for a bite.” She sighs, brushing hair out of her face. 

“For a human, there isn’t. But you guys heal so much faster. If anyone can beat this virus or infection,” she waved a hand in the air between them, irritated, “whatever the hell this thing is, it’s a werewolf. If we give him a concentrated dose of antibiotics and antibacterials, add some Vitamins for an immune system boost we might manage to pull this off. But we have to move fast. It’s hitting him harder than it did the patients back home. I don’t know how much time we have before it’s killed him. And I don’t want to see what an undead werewolf would be like.” She turns sharp eyes to Scott then, “No Peter Hale jokes!” she warns. Scott just smiles at her innocently, continuing to crush pills into smaller and smaller pieces.

When he’s done, he watches his mother add sterile saline to the powder, mixing it in until it dissolves. When it has completely she sucks it back up into a syringe. Taking a deep breath she adds it to the IV, following it up with more saline, and a vitamin mixture. She wets a hand towel from the bathroom and puts it across Derek’s forehead. 

“What I wouldn’t give for some ice right about now,” she says quietly, sweat beading on her own forehead. “I should check on Stiles,” she looks at Derek for a long moment. He’s unconscious, but breathing, the breaths shallow and wheezy. “Stay with him, watch him closely. If he seizes get me immediately. If he dies…” she turns to look at Scott. “Do what you have got to do.” Scott nods, face going strangely blank. She kisses him on the top of the head, lingering there with her arms around him for a beat longer than normal, before pulling back and picking up her bag of supplies. It’s significantly lighter when she lifts the strap up over her shoulder. Scott sits on the end of the bed, watching her get ready to go. 

“What do you think are his chances?” he asks. She sighs shaking her head, pointedly not looking in Lydia’s direction. 

“I just don’t know, honey. We’re going to just have to wait and see. Pray maybe?” she offers. He looks away, back at Derek’s sweaty face. 

Melissa turns to the door reaching for the handle. She freezes though when she hears the thump, the hard thump of a body flinging itself at the door. She backs away hastily, heart in her throat. Scott pulls her back. He eyes the cracked hinges and swallows thickly. 

“Mom?” he says softly. “Get the walkie talkie.” He moves slowly toward the window peeks out the blinds. His eyes close tightly. “Shit.”

Melissa dives for the walkie, eyeing Lydia where she sits silently in the corner petting Prada and watching calmly. She moves back over to Scott, flinching at every hard thump against the door. 

“How many?” she asks. Scott ducks his head, bracing his hands against the door as more bodies fling themselves against it. 

She peeks over his shoulder, looking through the window to the street outside, seeing what he sees. The radio slips from her suddenly numb fingers to tumble to the ground. “Too many,” he replies.

 

Isaac sits up a little straighter where he sitting on top of the dresser. 

“Did you hear that?” he asks. Allison picks her head up off his shoulder. 

“Hear what?” she asks. 

He hops down off his perch without answering, going toward the door. He pulls the curtain back to look outside, and jumps back. A moment later there’s a hard thunk against the window, and then another at the door. Kira stands up, reaching for her sword, John turns from where he’s monitoring Stiles’ deep even breathing, all attention now on the door with the busted frame. 

“Oh, fuck…” Isaac whispers.


	16. Stiles wakes to movement...

16\. 

Stiles wakes to movement, to harsh whispered orders, and then cold tile pressed to the length of his bare forearm and the side of his face. A musty pillow is shoved under his aching head. A bag of supplies set down beside him. 

“Stiles?” Stiles forces his eyes open and his dad is there leaning over him, face sweaty, scared. “Stiles, can you hear me?” Stiles winces, making a pained sound. His Dad is tense, worried. “Stiles, we’re barricading the door. Do you understand?” he asks. Stiles looks around confused. He’s on the floor of the dingy bathroom. He shakes his head. 

“Dad?” he whispers. His father turns away, and he’s back a second later with another bag of gear. He sets it down next to the first.

“There’s a high window. If we don’t…” his voice breaks. “You run. Kid, do you hear me? You run and you don’t stop!” Stiles sits up reaching for him, but his dad is suddenly gone, the door shutting behind him. There’s a shout from the main room and then the sound of something heavy hitting the door. Stiles struggles to push himself up. His head hurts. Everything is fuzzy. But he knows he needs to move. He tugs at the doorknob but it won’t open, it will barely even turn. He slumps down against the wall beside it, breathing fast and shallow with panic. He presses his ear to the door and waits. The sound of gunshots is muffled but obvious through the cheap wood. 

 

“Mom, I know John’s been teaching you how to handle this thing,” Scott sets a gun in her hand. “The safety is on. I want you to just aim and fire. Head shots only. And don’t get too close. That window won’t hold, so anything that comes through it is yours. I’ll cover the door. Lydia, I want you to take Prada into the bathroom and close the door. Isaac! I know you can hear me. You put Stiles in the bathroom and you block the door!” he yells, pounding on the wall. There’s a double pound back for yes. 

“What about Derek?” Melissa asks. She ejects the clip from the gun and counts her bullets. John has been teaching her well. Scott looks at Derek where he’s still sleeping in the bed, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. 

“I can’t put him in the bathroom with Lydia,” Scott says. There’s a crack from the door, the wood splintering further. Melissa hurries around the bed. She pulls pillows and blankets off the bed piling them in the corner, and then tugs Derek in that direction by one wrist. Scott helps her, moving quickly to pull Derek off the bed and into the nest protected by walls on two sides and the bedside table on a third. Lydia pushes and shoves the arm chair over to provide some coverage for the last side. He’s curled up slumped against the wall. Scott picks up the mattress and flips it over the whole lot, then guides Lydia toward the bathroom. “Stay put, Lydia. Try and keep Prada quiet.” He shuts the door on her calm face. 

 

John forces himself to ignore the bathroom door barricaded with the dresser on the wall behind him. Instead he keeps his attention on the three battle ready teenagers arranging themselves around him without a word to each other, and on the slowly breaking door. Any second that door frame is going to fail completely and they will be under attack. It’s a small space. They will have to be careful of each other. 

Isaac steps forward to be in front, but Kira nudges him over toward the window instead, where faces and bodies press against the dirty glass with an eagerness that makes John’s stomach tight. Kira stands at the door in his place, sword raised, legs apart for balance. She takes a deep breath to steady herself. Allison climbs up to stand on the bedside table, crossbow at the ready. The height gives her a higher position and better room to aim without hitting one of the pack. They’re as ready as they can be. 

 

Kira’s waiting for the final crack of wood, and for the door to spring abruptly open in response. She is not ready for the smell. Or the push of bodies. Or how fast these things move. One or two not-dead in the woods is nothing compared to this. She slices with her katana, taking off heads and limbs, and spinning away from reaching grabbing hands. She gets pushed backward into the room almost immediately by the onslaught, but John’s gunshots ring out, taking down bodies left and right. Allison’s arrows slicing through the air, knocking back one thing after another. It lets her regroup for half a second, just enough time to look toward Isaac where he stands at the now broken window. It’s high enough that the mindless bodies are getting stuck at the waist, unable to climb through. Isaac is using his machete to kill them with stabs and chops through the head, and they’re falling truly dead to rest half over the window sill, arms dangling down the wall. The whole scene is gruesome. They’re old blood everywhere but Kira body sings with the movement, and the knowledge that these people have her back. That she’s not in this alone. 

 

Scott stabs with his hunting knife, readjusting his footing every few hits. The bodies are piling up by the door, and he’s barely suppressing the urge to reel away from the smell, to lose focus on the situation at hand. Every few seconds he hears his mother fire her gun. He proudly notes that almost every bullet hits their target, and a good number of them hit in the head. He dodges a biting mouth, pushing the thing down and back with a hand on the top of its head. He stabs at its temple and shoves it way. He turns swinging around with extended claws at the next one. They’re coming so fast. There’s no break in the flood. Every undead from miles around must have come at their honking shouting arrival to the motel. And the gunfire will only bring more. Scott feels his face shift, his fangs descending. It’s hard to force back the impulse to tear and bite. Derek and Melissa had come to the conclusion that nothing good could come of ingesting even a little of the old and likely infected blood these things seemed to spew. 

He’s pushed further and further into the room, closer and closer to where his mother stands with her back to the wall, reloading her gun for the second time. Scott puts himself between her and the oncoming wave, taking half a second to breathe, and in the momentary pause hears the sound of fighting next door. A feeling of cold dread slides down the length of his spine. This is a losing battle. 

Desperate, Scott pulls back his head, opens his mouth and roars. Stiles, if he had been fully conscious and present to hear it, would have definitely labeled it Scott’s best one yet. And it just might have been, because every single one of the undead things seems to freeze in place, some animal part of the hind brain that had kicked on when they reanimated making them pause, stop, go still. Scott steps back, waiting to see what will happen next. The pause, it turns out, is only temporary. The bodies seem to wake from whatever daze he had sent them into after only about 30 seconds and then they move forward again. 

“Scott?” Melissa says quietly, terrified. 

“Get in the bathroom,” he says. “Now! Mom, go!” He darts forward with the hunting knife, shoving one undead corpse backward into the others, causing several to fall. He swings with his other hand, slicing with his claws. Kicking out hard at a third. 

He hears the door open behind himself, feels half a second of relief that his mother is actually doing as he ordered her too. But the feeling is quickly replaced by pain, excruciating, all consuming pain as Lydia’s scream tears through the room. It’s higher and louder, and more intense than Scott had ever heard from her before. Scott falls to his knees, hands covering his ears as he crumples down into a protective ball. 

 

Allison fires until she runs out of the available bolts for her crossbow, cursing that she hadn’t packed more in her bag. She immediately switches to her gun. Between John and her, they manage to keep the onslaught manageable for Isaac and Kira. She never lets herself stop to consider what might be happening next door. She’s too focused on right now, on the events happening right in front of her. On the immediate threat. All of her focus is instantly diverted when the roar tears through the room. It’s Scott, it’s so obviously Scott, and she can feel the power of it rocking through her, even with a wall between her and the source. She watches wide eyed and panting as every undead in the room freezes. Isaac is pressed to the wall, looking pale. She doesn’t hesitate. She fires four more quick shots, re-killing every undead thing currently standing in the room with them. John looks at her in surprise and Kira actually gives a little yell of triumph as the last one falls. But the break in fighting doesn’t last long. Less than a minute passes before there are more bodies clawing their way into the room. That’s when they hear the scream. It’s loud and long, and it resonates. 

Allison knows it’s Lydia, but it’s hard to accept that Lydia is as far away as Allison knows she is. It feels like Lydia is right there beside them. Isaac and Kira both fall as soon as it starts, crying out in pain and clutching at their heads. John and Allison pause briefly but go back to shooting only a few seconds later, taking out the rest of the undead they can reach from their positions. It’s only when the scream peters out an interminable amount of time later that Allison realizes the onslaught has stopped. She jumps down from her position, rushing to Kira and Isaac. Isaac peeks up at her from his position curled up on the floor in the fetal position. Kira groans sitting up too. They’re both ok. John steps past them, looking out the doorway now empty of anything but unmoving corpses. 

“How the hell?” he whispers. Allison helps Kira pull herself up and then steps up beside him. The undead are walking away, almost rushing, in the exact opposite direction. 

“Melissa? Scott? Derek!” Kira says, pushing past them. She climbs, with some effort, over the bodies piled by the door, sword once again strapped across her back. Allison scrambles to follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about half done with the last chapter and am already starting to plan out the third part of the series. Part 3 will be a little different, made up of snapshots and short scenes in the pack trek across the continental USA. Those will likely be posted sporadically as I get them done, and will probably not be in any specific order. There will be some happy, some sad, some funny, and some violent stories in that series.


	17. Lydia’s scream finally trails off, and she stands there wide eyed with shock

17\. 

Lydia’s scream finally trails off, and she stands there wide eyed with shock as the last of the undead turn around and start to move away. She wavers on her feet, eyes rolling back in her head before crumpling on the spot. Melissa dives toward her and reaches out, catching her by the shoulders before she can knock her head into the wall or the floor. 

“Lydia?” Melissa asks. “Scott! Talk to me!” she calls, looking toward her son, even as she reaches to check Lydia’s pulse and breathing. She closes her eyes letting out a sigh of relief when Scott sits up with a groan, rolling onto all fours and scrambling over toward them. 

“What happened? Why did they retreat?” he asks. Melissa follows his gaze to the open door, and the emptying parking lot just barely visible outside. 

“The scream must have done it,” Melissa says, she scrambles for her dropped medical bag and pulls out her penlight. She checks Lydia’s eyes. Normal pupil reactions make her feel better immediately. “I think she’s just unconscious.” 

“Mom, that was not a regular scream. Not even for Lydia,” Scott says. “I felt like my brain was going to explode in my skull. Her screams hurt, but this was something else entirely.” Scott reaches over and picks up Prada who is shaking, holding on to the small dog. 

“You’re ok? You’re not hurt?” Melissa asks. 

“Mom, I’m fine. Are you ok?” he asks. Before Melissa can do more than nod and smile, they’re interrupted by the sound of running feet.

Kira comes through the door first. Scott meets her halfway across the room, pulling her in with one arm, Prada clutched under the other in a gentle grip. Isaac and Allison, with John bringing up the rear, arrive seconds later, everyone checking each other over for injuries. Allison hugs Scott quickly, but tightly, before dropping to her knees beside Lydia. 

“Is she ok?” Allison asks. She pushes back a few wisps of red hair from Lydia’s face. 

“I think she is. But she’s unconscious for a reason. Whatever that was, it looks like it took a lot out of her.” Melissa, readjusts Lydia, letting her head rest gingerly on the motel room carpet. 

 

A sound from the corner of the room has them all going still. It’s a groaning sound that makes Melissa’s chest seize in now instinctive reaction. Scott steps forward, and Allison grabs Melissa’s arm, dragging her up and away. Before she can do anything more than reach for Lydia, Kira and Isaac are both there. Isaac picks Lydia up and backs away with her in his arms like she weighs nothing. Kira takes Prada from Scott, and herds Allison and Melissa further back. John steps up beside Scott, reloading his gun, face grim. Scott swallows thickly, his expression hard as stone as he steels his shoulders. 

The mattress they had flipped up against the wall to cap off their makeshift fort for Derek shifts weakly. Melissa shakes her head, looking away, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. The mattress shifts again, this time more forcibly. Scott turns, nodding his head at Isaac, and pointing toward the parking lot outside. Isaac carries Lydia out, Melissa and Allison following behind. But Kira stays, clutching Prada to her chest and watching with teary eyes as Scott steps closer. He grips his knife in one hand, reaching for the mattress with the other. John stepping up behind him, gun up and ready. Scott hesitates mid-reach for the mattress. 

“Umm, guys? Scott? Isaac?” a voice calls out, muffled and exhausted. Scott whips the mattress back. 

Derek blinks up at him in the sudden brightness, raising one hand to block out the sunlight. 

“That fucking sucked. Never let Lydia make that sound again!” Derek says. His voice is strained, out of breath, but somehow stronger than before. He starts to push himself up into a sitting position but gives up halfway, flopping backward into his nest of blankets again, looking grumpy and disgruntled. “A little help here?” His face is less pale, his eyes more alert and clear then Scott had seen them since earlier that morning. And God had it really been less than a day?

Scott feels relief flood his system, so much so that he stumbles with the sudden weight leaving his shoulders. John holsters his gun, steadying him with a grip on his bicep. When he’s good they each reach for one of Derek’s arms. They pull him to his feet, John reaching around him to support him when he wavers a little weakly. 

“Feeling better?” Scott asks. He presses a hand to Derek’s forehead, which is cooler to the touch then before. Derek nods. 

“Immeasurably,” he grips Scott by the shoulder. “Is everyone ok?” he asks. Scott smiles a little and nods. 

“Yeah, I think everyone might be.” Scott turns away, surveying the destruction of the room, at the bodies piled here and there on the floor. “I think it’s time to go.” 

 

Stiles must pass out again, something that was happening much too often today. Was it still today? It could be tomorrow by now, but Stiles isn’t sure. He wakes to Melissa’s kind face hovering over his, to a light from hell shining in his eyes. That hurts. Then there are dry pills, and stale water, and more movement. Stiles valiantly does not throw up all down the back of Scott’s shoulder. It's quite the accomplishment. He smacks weakly at Scott’s head where there’s a muttered but half-hearted protest about his weight. Then he’s passing back out again. 

He wakes up some undetermined time later in the Yukon. He opens his eyes to the sound of the same old WOW Hits CD playing on the stereo. He’s in the very back, half sprawled across the bench seat. His head and shoulders pillowed on someone’s chest, an arm curled across him firmly. He blinks awake, his mouth dry and his head aching distantly. It hurts, but it’s better. Trees are flying by the back window at a sickening speed. He looks away, finds the back of Lydia’s head leaning against the middle seats window. She has head phones on, and her head is pillowed on a sweatshirt against the glass. She’s sleeping. 

Stiles coughs, trying to wake up his foggy brain. He reaches up a hand toward his forehead and only then feels the arm practically pinning him in place. He freezes, his brain seeming to kick on all at once. Confusion, and fear, Fight or Flight kicking in at an alarming rate. He starts to struggle. 

“Dad? Derek! Scott!” he tries to move toward the front of the car, but hands grip him tightly. The SUV swerves and brakes; pulling over and stopping at the side of the road. Scott puts it in park. Kira tosses her book aside, turning around in the middle seat, and reaching out for Stiles. 

“Stiles! Calm down! You’re ok. It’s ok. It’s just us!” she says, brow furrowed in concern. Stiles looks past her at Scott who is leaning back between the front seats. Panic easing just a little at the sight of him.

“Woah, Buddy! Breathe man. Your Dad’s fine. He’s driving the jeep. It’s ok.” Scott says that so calmly, his expression so controlled and reassuring, that Stiles relaxes too. He winces reaching up for the back of his head. 

“What? Where are we? What happened?” he shakes his head, disoriented. “We were at the motel? Derek?” he asks softly. Scott sort of half smiles, and points to just behind Stiles. Stiles turns, flailing a little and finds Derek, alive and alert. He’s pale, still not wholly healthy but definitely better. Definitely not dead. He’s right there, and his hand is on Stiles ribcage, relaxed now that he’s not trying to hold him back from climbing into Kira’s lap anymore. 

“I guess I wasn’t quite as dead as we thought, huh?” Derek says. Stiles’ mouth drops open, so many emotions flashing through him that he can’t pin them all down. He turns, pushing closer, arms sliding around Derek’s shoulders in an uncoordinated hug. 

“You were dead. You were bit,” his voice is hoarse, and he squeezes the words out through a dry throat. 

“Apparently it takes more than a bite to kill me. Melissa says I’m healing. Getting better.” Stiles pulls back just a little, not able to convince his hands to release their tight grip on Derek’s t-shirt.

“We’re all okay?” Stiles asks. “Melissa, and Isaac? Allison?” Kira smiles, gripping him briefly on the forearm. 

“They’re all fine. Isaac and Allison are in Derek’s car. Melissa is riding with your dad in the jeep. She’s been most worried about you. You have a pretty bad concussion. You’ve been sleeping almost 36 hours. Lydia too. She’ll want to check on both of you at the next stop.” 

“What’s wrong with Lydia?” Stiles asks. He forces himself to release Derek, sliding back over into his own seat. He glances briefly at Lydia who looks perfectly fine, before turning again to study Derek’s face. He really does look 100 times better than the last time Stiles saw him. He even gives Stiles a half smile in return. 

“Her banshee powers have apparently evolved with the times. We think she’s maybe leveled up somehow? Like a new superpower maybe?” Kira sounds unsure. 

“The undead attacked the motel. They nearly overwhelmed us. And she just… screamed. It was so loud and so powerful,” Scott winces at the memory looking confused. “They fled. But she’s been exhausted since then. And she hasn’t said a word since it happened.” 

Stiles sits forward leaning over the seat to study Lydia’s face. He reaches out for her, running one finger down the curve of her cheek. She blinks awake, smiling widely at him when she sees him awake. 

“Hey,” he says “You ok?” She grins, pulling Prada up closer for a snuggle and reaching out to grip his hand in hers with a tight squeeze. She nods once before closing her eyes and resting her head back against the window again. She’s back asleep in seconds, Prada curled against her chest, her left arm draped over the back of the seat still holding on to Stiles’. He sits back, closing his eyes in exhausted relief. 

When he blinks his eyes open again, the sun has shifted lower in the sky, and they’re parked in front of a low one story building. There is a high, sturdy looking, chain link fence that goes all the around the outside of the yard. Lydia, Kira, and Scott are gone. Through the window he sees Isaac pulling the gate closed, securing it with a length of chain and a padlock. The jeep is parked somewhere off to the left, Derek’s car to the right. 

“What? What is this place?” he asks. 

“It’s a ranger station compound of some kind. They stored trucks and equipment here,” Derek says. “Scott says it’s clear. We should be ok for a few days.” Stiles turns in his seat to face him, watching him through half lidded eyes. 

“You’re really ok?” he asks. Derek studies him right back, his eyes clear and alive, and not at all pained. 

“Yes. I am,” Derek replies. 

“And I’m ok? Everyone is ok?” he asks, voice breaking a little with emotion. 

“We’re all ok. We’re surviving Stiles. We just have to keep moving forward.” 

“You sound like, Lydia,” Stiles says softly with a smile. Derek huffs out a breath. 

“East. East. East,” he echoes. Stiles smile spreads into a grin. 

“At least we know which direction to head?” Derek nods, mouth puckering in a reluctant smile. 

“It’s better than nothing.” 

Stiles turns and reaches for the door, but Derek’s voice stops him. 

“Thank you, for being willing.” He turns slowly to look at Derek again, his eyes finding Derek's in the fading light of late afternoon. 

“You would do the same for me,” he says. He means for it to come out like a question, but instead it comes out like a demand. He isn’t Derek. He isn’t a werewolf. There wouldn’t be freaky supernatural level healing abilities kicking in to save him if he were bit. He stares at Derek, hard, until he gets a slow careful nod. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer, until there’s a careful rap on the front windshield, and they both jump turning forward.

“Come on out boys! It’s time for your check up!” Melissa calls smiling and waving at them almost cheerfully. 

Stiles gets out of the car, slamming the door behind himself, and doesn’t look back once, not until he’s stepping through the entrance to the building, the large thick door heavy as he turns around to hold it open for Derek following behind. But when he turns back Derek isn’t there. He hasn’t even left the car yet. Stepping back toward the car, he squints and he can just make out Derek, curled over on himself, with his head in his hands, hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles must be white. His shoulders are shaking. Feeling his chest tighten at the sight, Stiles backs away, releasing the door and watching it swing shut between them to close with a heavy bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this part of the series. Part three will not be formal chapters, but rather a collection of smaller stories, and key scenes to connect part 2 with part 4 which will take place in Atlanta. The length of these stories will vary from a few paragraphs to 1000s of a words each post. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me. I am so sorry it took so long to get the last chapter out.


End file.
